


The Amber Rose

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV), The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Betrayal, Dragons, Fruity language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masked Hero, Merlin saves the day hurrah, Minor Character Death, Plot, Romance, Scenes of Drunkenness, Swooning, Violence, counterplot, happy ending for everyone except Agravaine because he's a slimy git
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unknown magic-user in disguise is stirring up the people with his daring rescue bids – at great personal risk he is bringing people on dragonback out of Camelot to safety in Caerleon. Rumour has it that he leaves a calling card with a picture of a flower emblazoned upon it at the site of each rescue. The common people have started to call him “The Amber Rose”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Seek Him Here

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Orczy. The Pimpernel of course is the original, much imitated, hero in disguise; inspiration for Zorro, for Batman, and the immortal Hong Kong Phooey (number one super guy!). 
> 
> The divergence from canon is blatant; characters and situations from several series are all mixed up to suit my purposes. Sorry if this jars.
> 
> Thanks to MrsUnbeknowns for the beta.
> 
> Disclaimer: 
> 
> I'm doing this for love, not money. 
> 
> The characters portrayed in this work of fiction are inspired by the BBC / Shine production "Merlin". I do not own the rights to these characters.

Arthur, high atop the battlements, stared across the glittering water towards his childhood home, his lost kingdom. He liked to stand high up here when he was not drilling his diminished retinue, his reduced band of loyal knights. Yes, he was often to be found here, gazing into the distance and pondering the misfortunes and betrayals that had led him here.

Far below there was a clattering in the town; hooves coming and going, the everyday commotion of the kingdom of Caerleon. Once he had presided as Crown Prince over such a bustle; but now his kingdom lay out of reach, far away across the sea. And this, he reminded himself, had been his own choice. His own choice to follow his heart, follow his love across the channel, join with his tomfool of a manservant in their hair-brained quest for happiness as consorts, which had failed so spectacularly in recent weeks. He had not so much as shared a kiss with Merlin these three months past, let alone a marital embrace. And now his hopes and dreams lay in ashes, and his kingdom, forever beyond his reach, was in turmoil, Uther’s purges more ruthless and bloodthirsty than ever.

Arthur’s face was still, a mask of calm; underneath he seethed, his heart and his guts roiling with anger, resentment and self-loathing.

As he watched a black speck tumbled from the sky and cries went up around him. “The dragon,” they called to one another expectantly, hopeful even among the gloom.  Arthur’s voice joined the uproar. “The dragon,” he cried, a tiny sliver of hope fluttering in his chest. Perhaps another lucky one had been rescued from the bloody misery of Camelot in its death throes. Man, woman and child took up the cry through the town. “The dragon is coming!” they shouted. Messengers scattered; Arthur leapt down off the castle walls and strode towards the field, while others converged on Queen Annis’s court, to wait for the new arrivals to be brought through.

For a fleeting moment Arthur thought of alerting Merlin, but dismissed the thought from his mind. Merlin would have been in the tavern all afternoon, he thought. There was little chance of rousing him at this point in the day. Instead Arthur made his way to the field where the dragon was about to land. He could remember the time when, in Camelot, the arrival of the dragon would be accompanied by dread and fear. It was a strange turn of fortune which meant that the dragon heralded the last remaining hope for Camelot; the dragonlord had first appeared not more than eight weeks hence, but since then he had brought so many refugees that Arthur had lost count.

The black dot had emerged from the sky and was now landing in the field outside the castle amid cheering and rejoicing.

Three figures clambered down from the dragon’s back before it reared up again and flapped away, the dragonlord upon its back cloaked and hidden from view as always. Arthur rushed to greet them.  He recognised one; Lancelot, who had participated in these rescues before but was unflappably loyal to the dragonlord and who remained steadfastly tight-lipped about his identity. He peered at the other two figures; one slight and stumbling, the other… the other… and he could hardly press down his joy. For Lancelot’s arms were wrapped protectively around a girlish figure.

“Guinevere!” barked Arthur, suddenly filled with hope as she turned towards him and smiled.

He ran to her and took her hand to kiss it. “Still as beautiful as ever, I see,” he went on, and he was delighted that it was true; that Gwen had somehow escaped the worst of Uther’s purge, and although tired and thin, appeared otherwise unharmed. Gwen smiled at him and he had, for the first time in many weeks, a genuine smile on his lips in return.

“Arthur,” she said, “it’s good to see you.” Whatever else had passed between them years ago, they were always, and would always remain, good friends.

Lancelot? Well, Lancelot was pressing Gwen to him as if he was never going to let go. Lancelot looked different. A tension that he’d had around his eyes and mouth for so many months was gone. Arthur was relieved for his friend, and swallowed down a bitter pang that his own remembered happiness with Merlin had not lasted so well.

He turned to the other rescued prisoner, who fared ill.

“Mordred,” Arthur whispered, kneeling, concerned, “Mordred, I am so glad. But you are injured.” The boy was shivering, emaciated; his skin was pale and a livid cut slashed across his cheek. He winced in pain at Arthur’s embrace as he croaked a reply. Arthur turned to the crowd.

“Get the boy to a physician at once,” barked Arthur. He did not rule Caerleon, but he had some authority in the city. Arthur watched as kind hands led Mordred away. Arthur sighed and wished, not for the first time, that he had in Caerleon a physician of Gaius’s skill to preside over Mordred’s healing.

Gathering his cloak around him, and beckoning to Gwen and Lance to follow him, Arthur led a small group into the castle to report the happy tidings of Gwen’s and Mordred’s rescue to Queen Annis. She had been welcoming and generous in her hospitality to the refugees from Camelot’s kingdom, and Arthur in return had provided much-needed training and discipline for the knights who were hers to command. He was truly grateful to her.

As he entered the royal audience chamber with his charges, his eyes lit on the figure of Agravaine, his uncle, standing behind the queen’s shoulder on one side. Agravaine was a kinsman of Arthur’s mother, here visiting from distant Cornwall. It was good to have his counsel in these difficult times. The two men nodded at each other. As Arthur strode to the throne and knelt he also observed, out of the corner of his eye, the pale, mop-headed features of his estranged consort, Merlin, entering the room. Merlin looked flushed, already well gone in his cups no doubt. His ridiculous ears had pink tips; the awful neckerchief he wore round his neck was awry. Arthur groaned inwardly at the thought of what sort of spectacle Merlin might be about to make. Sure enough, there was a minor commotion when Merlin ran up to Gwen and wrapped her in an entirely inappropriate hug, coating her hand with delighted kisses.

“Oooooh! Gwen! Gwenny Gwenny Gwen Gwen Gwen! Were you rescued by the fabulous Amber Rose?” he crowed, loudly, voice slurring. “Tell me, what’s he like? Is he tall, dark and handsome?” Gwen batted him away with a hurt frown. Arthur supposed she had not heard about Merlin’s recent behaviour, and he sighed, on her behalf.

“Merlin,” he growled.

But either Merlin had not heard the dangerous tone in Arthur’s voice, or he chose to ignore it. Instead he drew in a breath and started to recite, in a loudly slurring voice, a ridiculous doggerel that had raced round Caerleon these weeks past. The common folk called the dragonlord the “Amber Rose”, because it was rumoured that he deposited a card with a crudely drawn picture of a yellow rose upon it whenever he rescued a magic user or other refugee from Camelot’s bloody clutches.

“They seek him here,” yelled Merlin tunelessly, holding a bottle aloft, as if to humiliate himself, and by extension Arthur, as much as possible.

“They seek him THERE,” he shouted

“Old Uther seeks him EVERYBLOODYWHERE!

Is he in heaven?

Is hell where he goes?

That damned elusive

Amber Rose”

And to finish with a flourish, he hiccoughed and pirouetted round the court. Queen Annis smiled indulgently and clapped. She treated Merlin as a kind of court jester, which Arthur supposed was good because it meant that his consort was tolerated, but he couldn’t help feeling humiliated and resentful of his diminished status whenever Merlin put on one of his “performances”. Merlin’s public attitude to Arthur didn’t help. Here was a case in point. Merlin danced across to Arthur, a manic grin passing across his face.

“Oooh Arthur,” he stated with a spiteful look. “You been eating lemons again? Your face is as sour as vinegar. Poor little Arthur,” he said in a singsong voice. “Poor, pouty, prattish prince.” And, stumbling, he fell to Arthur’s feet, where he grovelled, planting kisses onto Arthur’s boots and generally behaving like a total buffoon. Arthur rolled his eyes and definitely did not pout.

Agravaine did not look amused.

“Arthur,” he said. “Can’t you control your… your… _consort_?” He spat out the word, making it sound like a foul oath. Merlin rose up at that and Arthur sighed. Agravaine really hadn’t got the hang of dealing with Merlin. His bluster and ill temper merely encouraged Merlin’s very worst excesses.

“OOoooh,” Merlin mocked, staggering towards Agravaine. Arthur looked to the heavens for inspiration. Merlin may be in his cups, but he had a hell of a mouth on him. Agravaine was going to feel the edge of Merlin’s tongue, and Arthur was unable to think of a single way of stopping this humiliating display—in front of Gwen, too! His face was burning.

“Oooh!” Merlin said again, licking his lips as he prepared to unleash the fury of his sarcasm.

“Jealous _Angryvein_ doesn’t like Arthur’s _boy_ friend,” he began, turning to the court, holding out his hands. “What’s the matter, _Asspain_? Hmm? Do you fancy a nice pert-buttocked boy of your own, _Arseyvenom_?” Merlin nodded and gurned at the court, doing a little circuit round the room, pantomiming kisses. Agravaine’s face darkened further, mottled with ire as the court, led by Queen Annis, erupted in laughter, magnifying Agravaine’s discomfort. Merlin, encouraged by his audience, turned his rear end towards Agravaine and dropped his breeches a few inches to show the round globes of his arse cheeks.

“See,” he crowed, provocatively, “see what you’re missing, _Assvein_ ,” and he patted his pale buttock with one hand pulled his breeches back up, and thumbed his nose before turning to take a bow to his whistling, heckling, laughing and applauding audience. Queen Annis, laughing hard, tossed him a ribbon which he happily wrapped round his wrist, lifting it into the air to display his trophy. Arthur found his mouth twitching despite himself. Agravaine’s face was just so… constipated.

“Shut up Merlin,” Arthur roared eventually at his clowning consort, calling him to heel like a dog. Merlin put on a hurt expression and got to his feet, lurching a little to stand by Arthur’s side.

“Queen Annis,” Arthur stated in a strong voice to shout down the din. Annis signalled and the court hushed.

“Queen Annis, I have good news. The dragonlord, known by some as the ‘Amber Rose’ has rescued two more prisoners from Camelot; Mordred, a knight and a magic-user, who is currently in the care of your physician, and Guinevere, a serving-maid from the Princess Morgana’s household.”

“Good news indeed,” said the queen gravely. “Come, child, come forward and tell me news of Camelot.”

Gwen curtseyed, looking a little disconcerted by Merlin’s antics, and then stepped forward to speak to the queen.

“Camelot is gravely diminished,” she said in her clear voice, eyes darting towards Arthur. “Uther is rounding up anyone with even a tenuous link to magic and executing them.” Her breath hitched a little as she fought back tears. Arthur went to step forward to comfort her, but stopped himself. Lancelot was by her side, he reproached himself. She did not need Arthur.

“My brother Elyan is missing. I know not where,” her lip trembled as she said this, but she did not falter. “And it is with great regret that I have to report that Mor… Morgana,” and there was a small sob from Gwen as she mentioned her mistress’s name, then she lifted her chin to carry on; Lancelot put a protective hand on her shoulder, and she smiled at him bravely. “I have to report that… Morgana is imprisoned. Uther accuses her of witchcraft.” There was a collected gasp from all gathered at the court.

Arthur swallowed. He felt his heart thudding in his chest and his legs almost gave way for a moment; Merlin put an unexpectedly strong hand at his back to bear him up. He found himself surprisingly grateful to have his estranged consort by his side for once.

His sister, his own sister, Uther’s ward; his father would descend so far into this madness that he would imprison Morgana. He thought of Morgana’s luminous green eyes; swimming with hurt as she was led to the dungeons, her piteous screams. This could not be. Grief twisted in his guts like a knife. His eyes stung and bile rose in his throat. He could feel Merlin’s eyes upon him. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of empathy deep within them, but then it was gone. He must have imagined it.

Queen Annis nodded, her regal bearing respectful as the serving girl who stood before her broke down into tears.

“What is your name, dear?” she said

“Gwen, your highness,” came the soft reply.

“Gwen, you have done well,” she said gently. “I am sorry to hear about your mistress. We will celebrate your return to safety, and the young druid boy who came with you, this evening, with a happy feast. But now let us take counsel. Arthur, Agravaine, I would sit with you. The court is dismissed.”

The court stood as one and bowed as the queen retreated to her private council chambers. Arthur caught Merlin’s eye as he followed her, together with his uncle. Merlin’s face seemed almost warm, sober and sad as he watched Arthur go, but then turned glacial as he stared suspiciously at Arthur’s uncle.

 


	2. They Seek Him There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin puts on a spectacular show of drunkenness, much to Arthur's chagrin. Meanwhile, the court at Caerleon is agog with rumours about the identity of the mysterious Amber Rose.

Humiliation, thought Arthur dispassionately, was an uncomfortable emotion. It went well with shame and embarrassment. The sensation was not unlike burning; heat chased pain and the two of them fought with his appetite and won. Yes, uncomfortable and not pleasant, but, sadly it was all too common for him to experience these discomforting feelings these days, thanks to his remorseless consort, Merlin.

He toyed with his meat and bread, forced down a mouthful or two, and returned to his contemplation while around him the carousing and feasting continued.

When Arthur thought about it, which he tried not to, because really, it actually hurt, but when he did think about it, all too often, humiliation was preferable to the alternative, which was icy, black despair. At least when his face was flooded with heat, and flaming, impotent rage, he felt alive. Arthur’s worst moments were when despair’s cold tentacles gripped his heart and squeezed it until there was no feeling, no breath left, just numbness and glacial absence.

As he watched Merlin—his words slurring, his body never quite still, never quite balanced—capering and sniping at the laughing court; as he saw Merlin’s grin grow ever wider and his eyes ever blanker, Arthur knew which of these two emotions was winning the upper hand for his consort, and felt himself overwhelmed with some other unpalatable feelings: pity for the pass that their dysfunctional relationship had brought Merlin to, and shame at his own hand in it. And still he knew that he, Arthur, had the better end of the bargain, for at least he could feel something. From the look in Merlin’s eyes, he was not sure that his consort could, any longer. And now what was that pricking at Arthur’s eyes?

Enough. Enough brooding. Arthur sighed and took a small sip from his goblet. Clearly Merlin was in his cups again; he was snorting now, doubling over with manic laughter at something Gwaine had said to him; his laughter had a hard edge to it. Presumably the flagon of ale Merlin held in his hand was intended to soften that hard edge. By the look of things it was failing.

Merlin began singing that ridiculous ditty about the Amber Rose now. He’d added some more bawdy lines to it and was teaching them, lustily, to the entranced courtiers. Arthur had a limited stomach for this display. He bashed his fist and his goblet down hard, onto the table. Merlin caught his eye and sneered at him before drinking the flagon of ale in his hand down in one long gulp, wiping his mouth obscenely with the back of his hand and belching.

Oh no, by all the gods, Merlin was struggling to get to his feet now; he was clambering clumsily onto the table. Arthur’s mood sunk, if it was possible for it to get any lower. For it was clear that Merlin was gearing himself up for a spectacular performance which would undoubtedly involve an inventive barrage of insults and bawdy invective aimed at him and at his uncle, who sat scowling at Annis’s side.

Annis herself seemed to be enjoying the anticipation; she smiled and clapped at Merlin who was wobbling around atop the table and stepping on peoples’ empty plates. Arthur suppressed a groan as Merlin clapped to engage the attention of everyone in the room.

“My lady Queen, lords, ladies, gentleman and assorted riff-raff, not to mention _Arsevein_ over there,” he declaimed drunkenly, waving his empty flagon at Agravaine with a drunken leer. Agravaine’s murderous frown seemed to delight the audience.

“Oh and my lovely consort, the pouting prince himself,” and Arthur knew his own disapproving face was the mirror of Agravaine’s, and he knew he didn’t pout, he really didn’t, so why was everyone laughing, even Gwen, he thought inconsequentially, piqued.

“Lift up your goblets, flagons and glasses, I would like to propose a toast thanking the Amazing Amber Rose himself for his return of the beautiful Gwen and the regrettably wounded Mordred to our circle. Big drinks, cheers everyone!”

The assembled crowd roared its approval and quaffed enthusiastically, Queen Annis included.

“And now,” Merlin continued, his grin growing ever more maniacal, “I will do a little celebratory dance.”

Leaping into the air and gesticulating lewdly towards Arthur and Agravaine with their identical stony faces, Merlin sang his bawdiest rendition of the “Amber Rose” song.

“They won’t find him in Arthur’s arse!” He turned over and, bending low, parted his cheeks at Arthur through his breeches. "If they pull his cheeks apart, they'll only find a princely fart!" Arthur groaned and looked away, face flaming. The crowd bellowed its approval.

“They won’t find him in _Angryface_ ’s glass!” He cocked his flagon at Agravaine, looked deeply into it, and then poured the dregs into his mouth.

“They won’t find him in my pubic hair!” he performed a lewd hip-roll, grasping his tackle and jiggling it up and down, again facing Agravaine.

“They won’t find him anywhere!” he roared to finish, arms wide, face split almost in two by his toothy smile.

The crowd roared at this startling display of wit, until, laughing with them, Merlin tottered, swayed, swivelled on one foot, and then crashed spectacularly into a comatose heap on the table, with a great clatter of cutlery and smashed plates. Arthur shook his head at this breathtaking display of drunkenness. Queen Annis ordered that he be covered with a cloth and soon from beneath it great snores could be heard while the celebration continued around him.

Eventually Gwaine bundled Merlin up into a table cloth and dumped him unceremoniously under the table. He was fully covered by the table-cloth, so that it resembled some kind of drunkenly-snoring upholstery roll. Gwaine was clearly in a similar state of dishevelment; Arthur was grateful to Lancelot who then dragged him away, complaining.

Arthur sighed and rubbed the frown-lines between his eyes, as if to erase them with his finger, and joined the conversation with those few remaining knights who were fortunate enough to have escaped from Camelot. They were discussing the identity of the mysterious “Amber Rose.”

“Have you seen his calling card?” asked Leon of Percival. Percival had been one of the Amber Rose's first rescues. Percival nodded, smiling. 

“Yes, he left one in the dungeon where I had been held. It was small, about this big,” he held up thumb and finger about two inches apart. “Crudely drawn, but recognisable as a rose.”

“Did you see the man himself?” asked Arthur, curious as to what sort of a person he could be. It was difficult to reconcile his prejudices about magic with the brave persona of the Amber Rose. Percival shook his head.

“He remained hooded and cloaked at all times, and was disguised at any rate as an old woman. I would pass him in the street if he walked past me.”

There had been much speculation about the identity of the famous dragonlord; Arthur himself had been one of the chief suspects, but had been publicly on display during the most daring rescues, including that of Gwen and Mordred, so the focus had now moved from him to others. Lancelot and Gwaine, of course, had both been involved in rescues in the past and were thought to be part of the dragonlord’s circle, but they were sworn to secrecy and refused to join in such discussions. But neither of them was present at the table at the moment.

“Could it be the Queen?” joked Percival.

“Merlin?” suggested Leon. Percival, eyeing the snoring table-cloth, snorted, and spat out his wine.

“Oi!” protested Arthur, dabbing wine off his sleeve. “Watch it! These are my best robes!”

The feasting and carousing continued until nearly dawn and all the while the table-cloth emitted gentle snorting and snuffling noises. When the room was nearly empty, and only Arthur and Agravaine remained, Agravaine booted Merlin with a contemptuous foot. The snores continued uninterrupted. Agravaine turned to his nephew and eyed him speculatively.

“So, Arthur,” he said in a low voice, looking round. “Do you still think you made the right choice coming to Caerleon to pursue your happiness?”

Arthur couldn’t answer.

“You could go back to Camelot, you know. Uther would welcome you—if you came alone, that is.”

Arthur’s throat felt tight. He knew that the estrangement with Merlin was his fault—and that Agravaine, however accidentally, had made his own contribution to it—and despite the fact that he could not figure out how to mend the rift, neither could he bring himself to make it final. He shook his head.

“Very well,” said Agravaine. “But surely you see that it is critical to save your sister?”  Arthur nodded, a very un-prince-like lump in his throat, and his vision blurring. He couldn’t deal with this right now.

“Very well,” said Agravaine again. “We will speak of this again tomorrow, nephew. Sleep well.”

But Arthur knew that he would not.

After Agravaine had left, Arthur looked down at the snoring heap that had once been his heart’s desire, the heap that had once worshipped him, but had weighed him up and found him wanting. He reached out a hand, leaning forward, but finding his vision blurring again, he turned away and walked up the stairs.

~#~

If Arthur had stayed but a few moments later he would have heard a rap on the windowpane. He would have been surprised when the snoring figure under the tablecloth emerged, to see that it was not his estranged lover, but his lover’s friend, Gwaine, who was rather more sober and wide awake than he had appeared earlier at the feast.

Gwaine went to the window and unfastened it. Merlin jumped in with a grin, his hair and clothes saturated. The two men had switched places under the table; Gwaine had lain on the floor of the Great Hall, pretending to sleep, while Merlin had exited swiftly with Lancelot.

“I did it,” Merlin said. "I got Gaius out! But gods, the weather is foul tonight! Did Arthur suspect anything?"

Gwaine gripped his arm and returned his grin. “The Magic Amber Rose struck again! No, Arthur thinks you are half way to oblivion with a sore throat from snoring like a hog."

"Great work, Gwaine, thanks!"

"Where is the escapee?”

“With Annis’s physician. He’s going to be fine, although at his age a trip on dragonback is not an ideal recovery from imprisonment.” Merlin smiled and, wincing, limped over to the table, rubbing at his left leg while he picked up an ale flagon. “Relieved though I am to have him back, there are still many others trapped by Uther’s hatred. We can’t afford to rest.”

“Aye, with Morgana chief among them,” whispered Gwaine. “But hold on, are you injured?”

Merlin nodded. “I have taken a scratch. It is not too deep; Gaius has looked at it for me, and declares it will heal if I rest it. But for now I must return to my chambers. I have an enraged prince to placate.” And he took the partly-drunk flagon of ale, but instead of drinking it, he poured it down his already wet front and into his sodden hair.

“There,” he said, striking a wobbly pose. “Do I reek of ale? If so, then let the pantomime begin. I shall go to my prince; he shall think me hungover and disgraced. My disguise and alibi are complete.”

Gwaine chuckled humourlessly. “You push him too hard, Merlin. He still loves you, you know.”

Merlin sighed and shook his head. “If only I could believe that, Gwaine. But I fear it was never true.” And adopting an exaggerated drunken swagger, he staggered off towards the chambers he shared with the prince.


	3. Uther Seeks Him EveryBloodyWhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur have a blazing row and we learn something about what has caused the rift between them. Can they heal this gulf, or have they hurt each other too much?

 

When Arthur got to his chambers he fell into bed, not expecting Merlin to appear that night. So he was surprised when a clumsy figure stumbled inside, accompanied by a strong stink of ale.

“Arthurrrr,” slurred his consort. “Give us a kiss, Arthur!” he hissed, breath sibilant, reeking so much of ale that Arthur had to turn his head. “Shhhame, sire,” he slurred. “I was hoping for a kiss from my lover, tonight.”

“Merlin you are paralytically - catastrophically - drunk,” said Arthur, shoving him away. “Not to mention sopping wet. How on earth have you managed to get so…” for Merlin’s feet were depositing rainy puddles on the floor. He sighed as Merlin stripped off his sodden clothes and rubbed himself down, before drunkenly stepping into a night shirt, stumbling as he did so. A fire awoke in Arthur’s belly, born of pity, shame, anger and disgust at Merlin like this, Merlin who used to look at him with such devotion and in whom Arthur once could confide when his feelings became entangled, Merlin who was now in a large part the reason for his confusion and therefore the last person he could talk to about it. “Go to sleep and leave me in peace.”

Merlin’s face fell still, for once. “Arthur,” he began in a low voice, sounding suddenly sober. “Arthur, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

But Arthur was too angry to listen. He rose from his bed, jammed his fist into Merlin’s nightshirt, and rammed Merlin against the door, ignoring the stifled gasp of pain this elicited.

“No, Merlin, not now, I do not wish to hear any more of your incisive observations about the so-called ‘Magic Amber Rose’s’ prowess with his weapons, real or metaphorical,” Arthur said, his voice low and intent. “I do not wish to hear about you, or your scatterbrained ideas for getting even more drunk. I have just heard that my father, whom I once loved, and whom I left at your behest, to start a new life with you, and what a great idea that was,” and now his treacherous voice was shaking, damn it, so he started again with a cough, “my own father has seen fit to imprison my half-sister, even now who knows what she may be suffering? And all you can do is drink. Merlin, she was your friend once. Surely you feel something for her plight?”

“Arthur, I,”

“Shut up Merlin,” Arthur snapped. ”It was a rhetorical question.” His head was throbbing from the long night, and the wine; most of all it was throbbing in response to the difficult discussion. Merlin was quiet for no more than a second before he started up again. Arthur groaned and released Merlin from his grasp, turning away from him.

“They say there has been another rescue,” Merlin said, voice less slurred than before. “They say that Gaius is here. I’m going to go and see him in the morning.” Merlin sounded almost joyful.

Arthur was pleased that Gaius had been rescued, but couldn’t bring himself to show it.

“I suppose your oh-so-handsome oh-so-mysterious Amber Rose rescued him, did he,” said Arthur, bitterly. Merlin had admired Arthur, once; had gazed upon him with shining eyes, had watched him, open-mouthed, as he fought; now his allegiance was transferred, and Arthur felt that loss most sharply because he knew he himself was to blame.

“ **My** Amber Rose, as you call him, has not given any magic users over to Uther, _Sire_ ,” Merlin said pointedly, his voice rising. “He has not placed his trust in the untrustworthy. He has not caused any of my friends to be murdered. _Sire_.”

Arthur sighed. And there was the crux of the matter. He rubbed at the frown lines between his eyes.

“Merlin, we have had this discussion many times. I refuse to have it with you now, when you are clearly still intoxicated. Agravaine is perfectly trustworthy; what happened to Gilli was a fluke, an accident.”

“Agravaine is a traitor!” shouted Merlin. “I can’t believe you still trust him, how can you put your faith in him? How can I trust you not to deliver more of my friends into his ‘care’, only for them to be vilely murdered by your father?”

Arthur felt his ire rising and found himself yelling into Merlin’s face.

“Agravaine is my kinsman, I will not hear him slandered!” he bellowed.

“Agravaine is a traitor, a turncoat, playing his own game for his own personal gain.” Merlin seemed suddenly sober and coherent. He had stepped right up to Arthur and was poking him vehemently in the chest to punctuate every word. “He turned Gilli over to Uther,” Merlin’s mouth twisted with hurt, and he shoved ineffectually at Arthur. “I trusted you, Arthur, I trusted you with my friend; and you betrayed him, and me.”

Arthur tried to defend himself. “Gilli had used magic, to try to seduce Morgana, I couldn’t just let him…”

“Gilli was infatuated, he meant no harm!” Merlin cried, pacing the room, arms wrapped round himself as if to shield his body from harm. “He worshipped Morgana! He tried to give her a harmless love potion – it was sheer desperation. He did not deserve to die! He admitted his guilt, he apologised when he came here! You did not have to hand him over to Agravaine. You knew he would turn him over to Uther, you knew he would be executed. You as good as murdered him.”

“I knew nothing of the sort, Merlin; for that is not what happened. Agravaine has explained…”

“His explanation is nothing but a lie. You would do well, Arthur, to trust those who care for you…”

“Like you, I suppose, Merlin, my clown of a consort, you would have me trust you? You would never lie to me, hmm? Never humiliate me publicly, throw my affection in my face, never see fit to air my dirty laundry in public to punish me?” Arthur was furious now. Merlin had no right to accuse his kinsman of treachery, it was all a misunderstanding.  He trembled and ground his teeth together, clamping his mouth to avoid roaring at Merlin, screaming with pain and anger at all the hurts, the slights, the deliberate taunts that Merlin had thrown in his face these past months.

“You sicken me,” Arthur said instead, as calmly as he could, his voice shaking, wanting to hurt. “You drink, and carouse; you flout protocol, and scheme, and taunt. You sicken me. I forget what I ever saw in you. I wish I had never left Camelot.” He realised his hands were tense, fisted, and willed himself to relax them. "I don't know why I stay. There is nothing for me here."

Merlin drew in a short gasping breath. Ah, so he was not immune to hurt, then. Arthur felt a savage, bitter stab of triumph.

Merlin’s face was ashen, shocked. “Arthur, Arthur, how have we let things come to this?” he whispered, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. Merlin sighed, wearily, shakily as if he had not slept for weeks. And really, how could the man be tired? He had spent the night snoring under a table for heaven’s sake.

For a moment it was as though a mask had been stripped away. Merlin looked serious in the pale dawn light; his brows drawn together, eyes sunken.  With his neckerchief stripped from his neck, Arthur could see a pendant dangling between Merlin’s collarbones, under his nightshirt; it flashed orange in the candlelight but Arthur could not make out the shape; he hadn’t seen it before.

Merlin sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands, a picture of fatigue, all traces of drunkenness gone. For a moment Arthur thought maybe Merlin was crying, but he hardened himself against the impulse to comfort him, and turned away to the window.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, and his pain-filled voice cracked now, “I loved you then and I love you still, I always will love you,” and Arthur could not, would not let that sincere declaration thaw his icy heart, it would undo him, so he set his jaw against it, and against the shame flooding him at his own desire to hurt Merlin, to make him _feel_ something, anything, for Arthur again.

“But I have lost my trust in you,” Merlin carried on, brokenly, “and I don’t know what I can do to make that right while you still put your trust in Agravaine and not in me.” Merlin rose to his feet, stumbling a little, to lie on a hard wooden bench, which Arthur had had brought  into the room some weeks back, for he did not share Arthur’s bed anymore; his gait was uneven, limping, almost as if he was in pain, rather than drunk. But how had he managed to injure himself, drunken and snoring under a table all night? Arthur was tired; rather than probe further, and jest as once he might have done, he settled back under the covers and tried to sleep.

Later, on the edge of sleep he thought, but could not be sure, that he felt a gentle hand smoothing a lock of hair away from his head, a warm body slipping under the covers next to him, soft lips pressing a kiss to his back, a hand snaking round his waist, while a soft voice gently murmured “Sweet dreams, my golden prince.”

But he must have dreamed it. Because, when Arthur awoke, he was alone. 


	4. Is He In Heaven?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaius brings grave news from Camelot. Morgana is held in its deepest dungeon; he fears that not even the Amber Rose could reach her there. Meanwhile Agravaine reveals his true colours to Arthur.

 

The door to the council-chamber clattered open and a young herald, not more than ten summers old, entered, hurriedly bowing before his Queen and her court.

“Your Highness,” the boy shouted breathlessly “There is word of another rescue during the celebrations last night”. And behind the boy was another commotion as the guards parted like hair before a comb, and a shuffling, brown-robed figure entered the chamber.

“Gaius!” Merlin yelped joyfully, ignoring protocol as usual, leaping to his feet to greet the beaming, elderly physician with an exuberant hug, enthusiastically returned by the old man. Arthur felt a sudden smile curl his lips up, another moment of genuine delight brought to him by the ministrations of the mysterious “Amber Rose”.  In deference to Gaius’s venerable age Queen Annis rose to her feet, so that the whole court was obliged to follow suit, rising in a wave and a rustle of expensive undergarments as Gaius approached her throne and bowed as deeply as he was able.

“Your Highness,” he said, gravely, and Arthur was struck with a sense of homecoming as he heard those familiar tones, and his eyes pricked unaccountably, suddenly grateful to the Amber Rose beyond all measure. 

“Come, Gaius, we are among friends here,” the Queen said in a warm voice. “Please, sit by me and join in our council.”

“With pleasure, your Highness, and my everlasting thanks at your hospitality to me and the many people who have been forced to flee Camelot.”

“And tell me, Gaius, what news of Camelot? The serving-girl, Gwen, told us that Morgana is captured.”

Gaius sighed. “Indeed,” he said, wincing slightly as he lowered his old bones into a hard, wooden chair. “She is held in a deep dungeon, far from the reach of any who may aid her. I was rescued from imprisonment in my own chambers. I fear that even the Amber Rose himself may find it too much of a challenge to rescue Morgana.”

“The Amber Rose will get her out!” cried Merlin. “I am sure of it.” Gaius’s eyebrow thought otherwise, Arthur mused humourlessly, frowning at Merlin’s outburst.

“Tell us more of this ‘Amber Rose’,” said Agravaine, leaning forward. “Do you have any clue as to his identity?”

Gaius shook his head “He was cloaked and hooded the whole time,” Gaius said, carefully, and from the guarded expression on his face Arthur suspected that he knew more than he was letting on. “He had also adopted a magical glamour to disguise his features. There was no obvious way to determine who he is – other than that he is a dragonlord and magic user of great power.”

Agravaine looked disappointed.

“Uther will never find out who the Amber Rose is,” declared Merlin, voice slurred despite the early hour, “Uther can’t find his arse with both hands.” He giggled into his ever-present ale-flagon.

There was a gasp around the room at this insult to Arthur’s father. Eyes turned to Arthur who tried not to react; the familiar stab of shame at his consort’s inappropriate behaviour knifed into his abdomen. Gaius’s eyebrow lifted higher than ever.

The councillors returned to their debate, aided by Gaius’s wisdom and knowledge. It was a wonderful thing for a ruler to have someone with such experience and clarity of thought at their side. There had been a time when Arthur had thought Merlin would… but no, such thought was foolish, now. Merlin was no longer the man he once was; Arthur must have imagined Merlin having flashes of wisdom; Merlin had come out with careful and insightful judgments on one or two occasions, but they were long ago, and maybe it had just been luck, all along.

But by all the gods Arthur missed that Merlin, the man who had bravely stuck by his side without armour during battles, the man who had idolised Arthur, had joked with him, had advised him wisely, had made him become a better man.

He missed his friend, for whom he had been prepared to drink poison, defy his father, sacrifice his kingdom. But, alas, he had not seen that Merlin for many weeks; he feared that he was gone forever.

Arthur was not sure of the exact moment when his Merlin, the man who had worshipped him, had disappeared and been replaced by this embittered, bumbling sot.

It may have been when Arthur had asked Agravaine to provide Gilli’s escort to Lothian, because Queen Annis had asked Arthur to stay in Caerleon to participate in a tourney. Merlin had distrusted Agravaine even then; he and Arthur had argued, and Merlin had pleaded vehemently to accompany Gilli himself, but Arthur had refused him leave, for he wished to have his consort by his side at the tourney.

But the final blow had come with news of Gilli’s execution. Arthur remembered the flash of accusation in Merlin’s eyes, the way they turned a cold, flinty blue when Agravaine entered the room and related the tale of the ambush whereby Gilli had been taken by Uther’s men. Arthur could not understand why Merlin refused to believe Agravaine’s account of their ordeal. Yes, Agravaine and his men were unharmed, but they had been skilled warriors whereas Gilli was not. There was no reason to disbelieve his kinsman and Merlin had no right to accuse him of treachery.

Arthur’s eyes strayed towards his consort who sat, rapt with attention, listening to the debate and taking sips from his ever-present flagon. His blue-black hair was lank and unkempt; he was poorly-shaven, and dark circles outlined his once-sparkling eyes, as if he had not slept for days. He looked like a tramp, not a prince’s consort. Whatever he once had been, he was now a drunkard and a fool. Arthur would do well to put him to the back of his mind.

When Queen Annis dismissed the council, Agravaine beckoned Arthur to one side. Ignoring Merlin’s dark looks, Arthur went over to his uncle and the two of them repaired to the battlements for a quiet conversation in privacy.

“Arthur,” Agravaine said quietly, looking around to check that they would not be overheard, “I have grave news from Camelot. The boy Mordred tells me that Uther will have Morgana executed within the week. He is setting out preparations for a ceremonial burning.”

Arthur gasped, mouth agape; this was an almost physical blow.

“No!” he said, passing a hand across his eyes, “this cannot be.”

“Alas, I fear it is so,” said Agravaine gravely. “She will be burnt at the stake for witchcraft.”

Arthur’s guts were in turmoil. He had seen battles and executions aplenty, and had thought that he was hardened to violence and carnage, but this was too much even for him to bear. He could not let this rest, could not let his own father execute his half-sister; even if she was a magic user, she did not deserve this fate.

“What can I do,” he croaked, desperate for a way to prevent this terrible thing from occurring. “How can I help her?” And he felt despair dragging at him, threatening to blacken his heart and turn him to ice.

“I have an idea,” said Agravaine. “I think there may be one prize that he may be willing to let her go for.”

Arthur looked at him, sudden hope blooming in his chest. A gust of wind caressed his hair; a shrivelled leaf rustled here and about at his feet, high upon the battlements.

Agravaine nodded, smiling. “Aye, Arthur,” he said, the breeze picking up his tunic so that it moved gently, like a flag, “I think we can do a trade with Uther. I think he will pardon Morgana and release her into our care if we can reveal the identity and whereabouts of the renegade magic-user known as the Amber Rose.”

Arthur was shocked, and more than a little horrified, that Agravaine would suggest such a thing. His face must have betrayed his thoughts because Agravaine held up one hand as he carried on speaking.

“I know what you are thinking; this Amber Rose is a hero, a man of the people, and I agree that this would be a big sacrifice, but think, Arthur, who is more important? This unknown man, or your own half-sister, your childhood friend? In all conscience there can only be one answer.”

“Maybe the Amber Rose will rescue Morgana?” Arthur said, moistening his dry lips. “Maybe we do not need to go to such lengths?”

Agravaine shook his head. “You heard Gaius,” he said. “Morgana is held in the deepest dungeon, far from any hope of rescue. No, our only option is to treat with Uther and hope that we can provide him with incentive to give her up into our care.”

Arthur stood, frozen by this terrible dilemma, his tongue stilled in his throat, but hearing the truth in Agravaine’s words. There could be only one thing for him to do. He nodded, gulping down his misgivings like poison, so that his lips shuddered and his shoulders were rigid with tension.

“I… I think Gaius knows more than he is saying,” said Arthur hesitantly. “I… I think Gaius may be able to lead us to the Amber Rose.” He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Merlin would never forgive him, never; this would be the end of any hope for their relationship, for the dreams they once had of a kingdom, founded on justice, united in their benevolent care. He swallowed his bile and his dashed hopes. Those dreams were already over; the important thing now had to be to rescue his sister, whatever the cost. His father had always taught him that pawns must be sacrificed to save the important pieces on the board; Merlin may not understand that, but Arthur did.

Agravaine nodded. “I have a plan,” he said, a calculating note in his voice. “Go to Gaius, and ask for his help to find the Amber Rose. Arrange a rendezvous with the Amber Rose; say it is to rescue Morgana.”

“But who would he meet with? This plan doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, tell Gaius that you have received intelligence that the jailer gets paid in three days; that he always takes the night off when he gets paid, and he will be drinking his way through his pay packet at the Rising Sun, in the Camelot’s lower town that evening. The Amber Rose can find him there and, overpowering the jailer, remove his keys. Then he can rescue Morgana.”

Arthur considered this. The plan had merit. The jailer from Camelot’s dungeons had a reputation for spending his pay-packet at the Rising Sun each month, and the timing was about right.

“But how will he overpower the jailer? He is a large man; and how can we be sure that he will have his keys?”

“The Amber Rose is a magic user, and will be confident that he can overpower one man. As for the keys – well, what of it if he does not have them? At any rate, the jailer will not be turning up to the rendezvous; the Amber Rose will be met by Uther’s men.”

Arthur shuddered again. This treacherous plot could lead to no good, he felt it in his bones; and yet, he could see no alternative, no other way of saving his sister. To commit himself to this hideous scheme he needed to be sure that it would work. He needed to know more. He needed to understand why Uther would go to such lengths to secure the capture of this one man.

“But tell me Agravaine, why?” said Arthur. “Why do you think that Uther would be so keen to find this Amber Rose?”

Agravaine pulled him in closer. “Arthur, think about it. Amber Rose, Ambrose, it is just a clever corruption of the name Ambrosius. You see?” Arthur shook his head. Agravaine let out an exaggerated sigh at Arthur’s ignorance.

“Arthur, Ambrosius is the Latin name for the sorcerer whose Welsh name is Emrys, which means “immortal”. Uther seeks to unmask and capture this powerful sorcerer, he sees him as the biggest threat to the kingdom of Camelot.”

Finally this made sense. The man the druids called Emrys would be a great prize for Uther. He may be prepared to trade such a prize for Morgana’s freedom. But there was no surety. Uther had been crazed, a little demented, when he had sent Arthur and Merlin away from Camelot; it was not clear that his actions could be trusted.

“How can Uther’s men overpower such a powerful man? And how can I be sure that Uther will then release Morgana?” said Arthur, frowning as he pressed his point, his heart still pounding at the conflicting emotions arising in him for considering betraying Merlin’s great hero.

Agravaine chuckled. “Oh, Arthur,” he said, putting his arm round his nephew, “such a sweet, trusting nature you have. You would never have made a good king. I know that Uther will release Morgana. You see, he and I created this plan together.”

Arthur gaped at Agravaine, suddenly gripped by an empty feeling, gnawing at him and sucking all hope, all joy out of his heart forever. Agravaine smiled, and how could Arthur not have seen how cold and insincere his uncle’s smiles were?

“No,” he whispered. Agravaine was helping Uther. Merlin had been right, all along, about his uncle; and Arthur had been played for a fool.

“You? … Uther? I don’t understand…” Arthur could not speak to articulate his accusation; Agravaine was a spy, in league with Uther all along, seeking to ensnare Arthur in a devious plot.

“Oh yes, Arthur,” said Agravaine, chuckling at Arthur’s stricken look, ”Your father and I have reached a mutual understanding and I am helping him to round up the devious magic users in Camelot and beyond. They are Albion’s greatest threat. And Emrys is the most dangerous of them all. Ever since the Amber Rose – Emrys – first appeared, and wasn’t it a foolish trick for Emrys to risk revealing his identity by rescuing such trifling prisoners? Ever since then, Uther has wanted to capture him, unmask him and make an example of him. And Morgana provided him with the perfect bait.”

Agravaine smiled widely, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “If you lure this Amber Rose into the trap, Uther will release Morgana and she will come to Caerleon, where you and she can bicker and argue together happily ever after for all I care.”

Arthur, could not speak; he cleared his throat and whispered instead. “And if I refuse?”

“If you refuse, if you reveal the plan, if the Amber Rose does not turn up at the rendezvous, Morgana will be executed seven days hence,” said Agravaine, his smile wiped from his face in an instant as he stepped away from Arthur, as if to step out of his sword’s reach. “Uther will denounce you publicly one final time. And then I will be Uther’s heir.”

Arthur’s horrified gasp escaped from his throat involuntarily as he understood the full breadth of his uncle’s treachery; he sought power and influence for himself as Merlin had said all along. Arthur should have listened to his consort, should not have been so sentimental about his mother’s kinsman. Either the Amber Rose or Morgana would pay the price for Arthur’s blind trust.

And as Arthur unsheathed his sword with a roar, ready to cut his treacherous uncle down where he stood, Agravaine backed away, clattered down the steps from the battlements and was gone. Arthur stood there for a moment or two longer, then, an angry growl in his throat, leapt after him.

He was so intent on chasing down his quarry that he did not see Gwaine emerge from behind a pillar at their backs, and slip away towards the kitchens. He had heard everything.


	5. Is Hell Where He Goes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur contemplates his reaction to Agravaine's treachery. He and Merlin have a heart to heart but somehow fail to communicate. Can their relationship be rekindled with all their secrets and lies driving a wedge between them?

Arthur had never liked plots, and intrigue. His strengths lay in action and battle strategy. He had hoped that, when he became King, his consort, Merlin, who had more of a stomach for such things, could provide political counsel. All his hopes and dreams lay burnt now, the ashes of a pyre that had not yet been lit, whose flames he desperately sought to prevent ever being lit; he had to rescue his half-sister, and in so doing he would betray a great hero, and thus wreck any last chance he might have had for happiness with Merlin.

He fought his urge to hunt Agravaine down and slay him now. This would merely hasten Morgana’s end. Instead he must wait until Morgana was secure; then, he promised himself, he would track his uncle down, and slay him, treacherous dog that he was.

Arthur would then return to Camelot and plead with his father to take his place by his side again. It was his duty to save his people from this terrible purge, to use his influence with Uther to prevent further bloodshed. Agravaine must be stopped and Arthur must fulfil his destiny as a Prince of Camelot.

He and Merlin had dreamed together of an era of peace and justice, Arthur ruling Camelot with Merlin by his side. These dreams had sustained them in their exile while they discussed how to stop Uther’s dreadful purges and how to bring an end to the bloodshed in Camelot.

But Agravaine had driven a wedge between them, and Arthur’s dreams lay in ashes. Nevertheless he could salvage something of them. He would try to bring about the era of peace that Camelot deserved, and if he must do so on his own, if Merlin would no longer have him, that is what he would do. He was a prince and his duty must come first.

He wished that his path to the prize did not have to start with him betraying a great hero; but nevertheless, for the love of his sister, it was what he had to do.

Thus resolved, a plan of action clear in his head, he was able to act, implacable and emotionless now in this cold, despairing world he had fashioned for himself, with his own treachery bitter in his mouth. And so it was that he arrived at the chambers that Gaius had been given and was sharing with the boy, Mordred, and he asked Gaius if he might have a private word.

“Is something the matter, sire?” said Gaius, ever polite. Arthur schooled his face into a mask. He needed Gaius to trust him, even though Arthur was about to betray Gaius’s rescuer, even though Arthur was about to become a traitor who no longer deserved anybody’s trust.

“Gaius, I fear for my sister,” Arthur began. And he told Gaius that he had heard rumours that Morgana would be executed within seven days; he begged Gaius to put him in touch with the Amber Rose, so that the Amber Rose would steal the keys from the jailer at the Rising Sun in Camelot, and the great magician and dragonlord could then rescue his sister from Uther’s clutches.

“Do you remember when we were children, Morgana and I?”

“Oh yes, sire,” said Gaius, chuckling. “You were forever being sent to me with grazed knees and cuts and bruises, the pair of you were as bad as each other.”

Arthur smiled, ruefully. “Morgana was better than I was with a sword, I could never admit it though. Being bested by a girl was too humiliating.”

“She has always been very determined, sire.”

“I can’t bear to think of her independent spirit, chained, Gaius. And I can’t bear to think how she must be suffering. I have to try to help her.”

And something of Arthur’s distress must have communicated itself to Gaius; he seemed to attribute it to nothing more than Morgana’s imprisonment, and did not detect the undercurrent of self-loathing in Arthur’s request. He took Arthur’s note and promised he would see to it that the Amber Rose received it in confidence, and that he would communicate the reply as soon as he could.

Later that evening Queen Annis once more called upon her kitchens to put on a feast, this time to wish Agravaine farewell as he would be travelling back to Lothian the next day. Arthur allowed himself a hollow chuckle at this transparent lie; he knew that Agravaine would not be turning north, but travelling south instead, to Camelot, to arrange for the demise of the hapless hero, the Amber Rose.

The assembly gathered in the Great Hall for another evening of carousing; Arthur toyed with his knife and aimed murderous glares across the table at his uncle, who had wisely decided to sit as far away from Arthur as possible.

When Gaius entered the room, he sat next to Arthur and quietly slipped a piece of paper to him under the table. Arthur made his excuses, muttering something about “the privy,” and slipped out into a passageway where he examined the slip of paper in the light from a candle. A stylised picture of a rose graced the top of the paper, and there underneath it in a looping script Arthur read the words:

“I accept your request for help”

He gulped at this confirmation that his plotting had borne fruit.

Just before he was about to stride back into the Great Hall, he heard footsteps. He clutched the paper, tucking it into his jerkin, and slipped behind a curtain, waiting for the people to pass. He recognised the voices; Lancelot and Merlin were walking towards the privy, whispering furiously.

“I think you should trust him,” Lancelot hissed. “He is wise, and he loves you still. Take him into your confidence.”

“I cannot,” Merlin muttered back. “Arthur is brave and true, but Agravaine has his ear, and I fear that he will kill Arthur without a thought if he thinks Arthur has the information he requires.”

“I fear you do Arthur a great disservice…” and their voices were lost among the echoes of their feet.

Arthur resisted the temptation to follow and find out more about what Merlin was hiding from him; he did not have time tonight. There was more than one plot afoot, he thought. But at least Merlin still thought he was brave and true, even if he could not acknowledge that to Arthur’s face. He felt an unaccountable warmth at that, forgetting for a moment, and then quashed it in despair as he remembered what he was about to do, which would kill any remaining trust Merlin had in him forever.

When Agravaine left the feast for a moment, Arthur followed his uncle into the passageway and, ducking into an alcove, slipped the piece of paper bearing the amber rose motif into Agravaine’s hand, without speaking.

The deed was done. Arthur’s treachery was complete.

His uncle nodded and then Arthur walked away, filled with rage and regret. Agravaine did not return to the feast, and Arthur’s appetite had left him; he toyed with the food on his plate, but had no stomach for it or for strong wine tonight. A pensive mood settle over the room and gradually the revels diminished as the assembled company made their way back to their chambers.

For once, Merlin accompanied Arthur to their rooms, relatively quiet and sober, and did not remain, carousing, with the serious drinkers in the Great Hall. As Arthur snuffed the candles one by one Merlin approached him and took his hand. Surprised, Arthur stopped, looking at Merlin in the half-light.

“Arthur,” Merlin began, “there is something I want to say to you.”

Arthur swallowed. He could not speak. He had just betrayed Merlin’s great hero; he did not want to face Merlin, tonight. Merlin looked at him, clear-eyed and thoughtful; it was as if he was peering into Arthur’s soul. Arthur felt his breath hitch.

“I meant what I said, the other night,” Merlin said firmly. “I have always loved you and I love you still. I lost my trust in you, and I think you lost your faith in me. I think we have paid enough for our folly,” and he kissed Arthur softly on the forehead.

“I am so, so sorry for the hurts I have caused you. It was what I had to do to protect you. I thought I had to push you away from me. Believe me when I say that they wounded me as well. I would beg you to forgive me, but I fear that you cannot.” Merlin’s eyes were brimming with tears; he had always been a sentimental idiot. Arthur felt a wave of affection threaten to overcome his stern resolve. And why did it sound like Merlin was saying good-bye? Arthur was not going anywhere. Arthur’s own eyes stung as Merlin reached behind his own head and unclasped the mysterious amulet he had taken to wearing around his neck.

“Here, Arthur,” he said. “I want you to have this, as a token of my love, of my absolute regard for you. I made it myself, for you. I beg you not to think badly of me, whatever happens.” And he placed it in Arthur’s upturned palm, squeezing Arthur’s fingers around it in a fist, holding Arthur’s closed fist in both his hands.

“Everything that I am, everything that I have, everything that I ever will be, is always for you, Arthur,” he declared, an echo of the solemn vows they had taken together in the stillness of their past, “Please, wear this and think of me.”

Arthur couldn’t begin to understand what had led Merlin to this declaration on this, of all nights. His throat was tight; he could not speak, poised as he was between hope and despair. Merlin started to step away, towards the door, and Arthur finally stopped him.

“Merlin, wait,” he whispered, not trusting his voice, holding his consort by one hand.  “Merlin I… I just wanted to say… whatever happens, I, too, am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am.” He couldn’t say more; his mouth would not let him; his eyes were stinging, and he couldn’t afford to give away the plot, because if he did, then Morgana would burn. His sister would burn. His vision blurred, as if the smoke from her pyre filled his chamber. He wished with all his heart that he could confide in his old friend. But he could not, he could not; he shivered and pressed his lips together to prevent himself from crying out.

The two men stood for a moment, bound up in their own terrible secrets, on the edge of blurting them all out, but somehow not quite stepping across that line.

Merlin’s eyes were dark and unfathomable as he turned and left the room, quietly shutting the dark, carved oak door behind him until it clicked.

Arthur stood for a moment gazing at the closed door and then, realising he still held Merlin’s amulet, he opened his hand and looked down at it. It seemed to be of an orange stone; a stylised rose set on a golden chain. He had seen similar stone before; he racked his memory for its name. It was from the Baltic, faraway across the sea; its name… was amber. Merlin had given Arthur an amber rose.

A sudden terrible thought came to Arthur and he let out an involuntary cry, blood suddenly cold ice in his veins. What if… but no, it could not be possible! Surely not!

“No!” he cried, running to the door, to go after Merlin and ask him to explain, but he found that the door was locked.

“Merlin,” he roared, enraged, pounding impotently at the door, bellowing Merlin’s name, beating the door with his fists until they bled. But no-one came. He was trapped, a prisoner inside his chambers. Merlin had locked him in.


	6. That Damned Elusive Amber Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur rages about his imprisonment and Merlin's many deceptions. He takes bold and decisive action to free himself, and embarks upon a perilous quest of his own.

Arthur raged and blustered. He threw the amber rose amulet across the room; overturned his table and chairs. Papers, flagons, goblets, discarded armour fell clattering to the floor.

Merlin, his Merlin, the manservant who had become his dearest love, and then rejected him; his very own skinny-limbed Merlin was a sorcerer, a dragonlord. Merlin was the Amber Rose, the man the druids called Emrys the immortal, the man whom he had betrayed to his own uncle and father. Merlin had lied,  and lied, and lied, and Arthur had sent him to his death.

Had he enchanted Arthur? He had been deceiving him all along, had never been the person that he seemed. Arthur had betrayed Merlin, but Merlin’s was the earlier, deeper, longer betrayal. The pain of it scalded Arthur, burned his bones to the marrow.

Arthur’s head throbbed and he bellowed in frustration. He picked up a heavy chair and hurled it at the window; the chair broke but the window remained unscathed; perhaps Merlin had enchanted it to prevent Arthur from escaping.

Arthur was imprisoned in his chambers, and his fury was as wide as the impossible ocean. He beat against the rocky walls of his castle prison, like the sea in a tempest raging ineffectually at jagged cliffs on the shore. He had been tricked, enchanted, betrayed. Merlin was a traitor, a sorcerer, corrupted by magic, forever damned; Uther would slay him and he deserved his fate. Arthur howled in grief and impotent fury; he roared, raged, and rampaged.

But gradually as Arthur’s wrath abated; as the darkness of the night gave way to the grey half-light of dawn, he had time to contemplate Merlin’s behaviour through the whole of the life they had shared together and to acknowledge the truth to himself; that Merlin’s quiet devotion to Arthur had been deep and true; that over the course of many years Merlin had saved Arthur from certain death countless times with his magic; that, despite  their recent estrangement, Merlin had never once used his magic against Arthur.

That he owed Merlin a great debt that could never be repaid.

That he had betrayed Merlin and sent him to his certain death.

That he loved Merlin still.

Love, betrayal, death, rage, and impotence circled endlessly round, droning like bees so that his head throbbed with the pain of it.

He strode over to the amber rose which lay glistening on the floor, unharmed by Arthur’s tempestuous outburst. He turned it over and over, remembering Merlin’s last words to him. Merlin had been saying goodbye, he was sure; he remembered Merlin’s whispered declaration of undying love, and wished himself back there so that he could either return it or throw it back in Merlin’s face, he was not sure which. Merlin was riding on dragonback to his certain death, Merlin knew this and yet he was going to try to rescue Morgana anyway. Arthur was sure of it.

“Merlin,” he said out loud, brokenly, sinking onto the bed, alone with his regrets and with Merlin’s amber rose amulet grasped in one bleeding fist. “I have been such a fool! Merlin! Merlin!”

His eyes were dry now and he pressed his lips together into a thin line as his resolve hardened. He would travel to Camelot at once. He must warn Merlin of Agravaine’s treachery, and then he would offer himself to Uther in Morgana’s stead, and throw himself upon his father’s mercy, as he should have done all along. Merlin must not die. That infuriating, insubordinate, clumsy, treacherous, conniving, loveable, loyal idiot of a wizard would face Arthur and answer to him, or Arthur would die in the attempt.

Thus resolved, Arthur stood at the door until the cockerel crowed and waited, silently, so that when he heard the faint, almost inaudible click of the lock, he wrenched it open, to see Lancelot, surprised, poised as if to flee. A plate of bread and cheese, and a goblet of weak ale, stood on the floor before him.

Arthur grabbed Lancelot and dragged him, struggling into the room. He slammed the door behind him with his foot, and thrust the knight roughly before him.

“Right,” said Arthur firmly, striding up to Lancelot and hurling him to the bed, putting his steeliest note of command into his voice. “Right, _Sir_ Lancelot. I have had a long night trapped in my chambers to think about things and no longer feel entirely murderous towards you, _Sir_ Gwaine or my soft-hearted, addle-pated, idiot of a consort. However, I require answers and I require them now. If your answers are satisfactory I _may_ decide to pardon your perfidy.”

Lancelot gulped.

“My lord,” he began, “I beseech you…”

Arthur silenced him with a finger to his lips, and went to the door, checking up and down the corridor for spies, before returning to his room.

“Lancelot, tell me now, the truth, damn it all. Is Merlin the Amber Rose?”

Lancelot stared at him, gaping, uncertain for a moment, and then nodded, his mouth firm. Arthur turned from him.

To be honest, now that he knew, it seemed obvious. He had been so stupid. Lancelot, Gwaine and Merlin had always been as thick as thieves; and Merlin had always been as soft hearted as a maid. It was clear that the three of them had been acting in concert to stage these rescues.

Once Arthur had got his head around the fact that Merlin had lied to him for years, and that Merlin was not the bumbling, loose-limbed incompetent that he seemed to be—instead, he was creature of magic, a man with the power to command dragons—once he had understood that, and accepted it, the other pieces of the jigsaw just fell into place. Everything else that he knew about Merlin: his protectiveness towards magic users; his sentimental attachment to magical creatures; his behaviour over the Gilli incident—suddenly made awful sense.

Yes, once he had understood Merlin’s power, he could see that Merlin, whose capacity for compassion knew no bounds, when he got news of the suffering of those he loved, would be unable to resist the opportunity to use his magic to take them out of Camelot. And of course he would enlist his friends to help him. How could Arthur not have seen it before? But why had Merlin not told Arthur?

Lancelot sighed and sat down, wincing at the bruises that Arthur had left on his shoulder when he grabbed him.

“I understand,” said Arthur in a low voice, “that Merlin, of all people, is more than he seems. I do not know how, or why, all the deceptions were achieved over the last few months, but many things begin to make sense to me.”

Lancelot looked down at the floor and did not deny anything. Lancelot was incapable of lying. His silence spoke volumes.

“Lancelot, I have been a fool,” said Arthur, and it hurt so much to admit it, but it was true and there was no sense denying it. “I have mistakenly trusted my kinsman, Agravaine, whom I knew but little, out of little more than boyish sentiment, instead of my consort, Merlin, whose heart is so large you could fit the whole of Albion into it.” Arthur paced round the room, unable to look at Lancelot for long.

“But in truth,” he added, still angry with Merlin for all his elaborate deceptions, “I cannot be fully to blame, for Merlin has deceived me; he has lied, and acted deliberately provocatively, pushing me away from him.”

“It is true, sire,” replied Lancelot, sighing. “Gwaine and I told him many times that we thought he should confide in you, but he stubbornly insisted that by deceiving you he was protecting you from your uncle, that if you knew about his magical capabilities you would be in danger, or place yourself in danger to protect him.”

Arthur nodded, it was just the sort of twisted logic he could believe of Merlin.

“And all the drunken antics?”

“Sire, I believe that these past months Merlin has been dissembling; the flagon he carries contains nought but springwater.”

Arthur shook his head. Somehow the knowledge that Merlin had been sober when he had sent all those cruel barbs and jabs Arthur’s way, and that he had been doing so out of some misplaced desire to push Arthur away for his own protection, made them hurt even more. He wished that he and Merlin had been more honest with each other. But it was too late now. Oh, what a pretty pass they had come to in their manipulations and deceits.

“I have been cold, and distant, and I have suffered for my stupidity…” Arthur’s breath faltered a little but he forced himself to carry on, “I have done something very, very foolish, and I fear that Merlin, the sweet, soft-headed idiot that he is, may pay for it with his life,” and suddenly the previous sleepless night threatened to catch up with him, for his eyes were unaccountably blurry again. He dashed them with the back of his hand.

“Will you help me, Lancelot?” he asked intently, locking eyes with the knight. “I must go to Camelot, before it is too late, to warn Merlin that he has been betrayed by one who loves him, but did not understand him. Lancelot, please, help me, for I fear that I will not survive if he is slain, I will not be able to live with the loss.”

Arthur pressed his lips together to stop them from trembling, and explained his predicament, that Agravaine had given him an impossible choice, between his sister and his consort, and that unwittingly Arthur had sent Merlin into grave danger. He exhaled in relief when Lancelot nodded, his eyes warm and understanding, and grasped his arm.

“Arthur,” said Lancelot, steady-gazed and warm-voiced. “I will gladly travel with you to Camelot. We will confront this peril together. We will not let Uther kill Merlin.” Arthur felt so grateful that Lancelot was by his side, a faithful friend.

“We must depart quickly,” said Arthur. “It will take us two days to Camelot if the going is good; let us take fast horses, and not delay.” He fastened Merlin’s amber rose amulet around his neck, silently vowing not to remove it until Merlin was safe, and he could deliver the amulet back into his consort’s hands. They hastily crammed the bread that Lancelot had brought into their mouths, and still chewing, hastened to take their leave of Queen Annis, who was presiding over her morning court at Caerleon’s Great Hall.

Arthur knelt before her.

“Queen Annis,” he said, bowing his head, “I beg leave to be excused from your court. I am urgently to embark upon a perilous quest and would have your blessing.” The words felt good. He needed this quest, needed to take action. He felt his heart lightening at the thought.

The queen rose and took his hands, pulling him gently to his feet so that he stood over her, a good foot taller.

“Prince Arthur,” she said gravely. “I see that you are intent upon a desperate quest, one that demands great courage. During the time you have spent in Caerleon, despite many trials, setbacks and dark betrayals your judgments have been sound, wise and fair.”

Annis held his gaze at his sharp intake of breath. How much did the Queen know of his predicament? Everyone had their intelligence network, it seemed. Arthur resolved that if he ever fulfilled his destiny and became King of Camelot he would appoint a spy master. He had spent too long in the dark while others schemed.

“Your sense of duty and resolve have grown stronger,” the Queen continued. “You have grown from an arrogant prince to a stern warlord. I deem you fit for your quest, whatever it may be and a noble ally of Caerleon. Go with my blessing and my best wishes for your success.”

Arthur, humbled and cheered by Annis’s good wishes, bowed low to her and turned, dark brown cloak swirling. He was clad in plain leather hunting clothes. His boots were brown and sturdy; he bore a plain sword and dagger at his hip. There was nothing to identify him as a knight of Camelot, nor of Caerleon. The amber rose amulet lay hidden, next to his skin, a secret reminder of his purpose.

Arthur hurried away to the stables to prepare their horses for the journey while Lancelot went to say goodbye to Gwen. Arthur could feel in his bones that now was the time for action. It was time to confront his uncle and his father; time to rescue his sister and save his consort.

It was time to fight for his destiny. And Arthur always fought to win. 


	7. He Meddles With Uther’s Purges, On His Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Lancelot set forth on their quest to warn Merlin that he is betrayed. They encounter great dangers in the forest. In a rare moment of introspection Arthur reflects on Camelot's plight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The woods of Albion are perilous,” said Arthur, “but the desperate men who travel through them are more perilous still.”

 

There was no time to lose; the journey to Camelot would take two days at the least, and would need hard riding and fresh horses. Armed, cloaked and intent of purpose, they leapt onto their steeds and clattered through the gates of Caerleon to meet their destiny.

They fell onto the well-worn path that led east from Caerleon across the river Usk, their horses warm and steady under their seats. Arthur’s mood, though somber and intent, was lighter than it had been for months. Sitting at home brooding was never his style. He was a man of stern resolve and bold deeds; the bright sunshine seemed to match his mood.

They made haste north-east through the dark forest towards the ferry across the great river. It was spring, and all around them was a cacophony of birdsong; the trees were heavy with new leaves, and the scent of blossom hung heavy in the air. When finally they stopped to make camp for the night, they set their horses by a small stream to allow them to drink, and sat quietly with their animals and a camp fire in the dim forest gloaming, eating a simple supper of bread and salted meat, and listening to the birdsong as the sun went down. Lancelot sharpened his sword with a whetstone. Steely rhythmic sounds rang through the air while Arthur gazed into the fire, which crackled and hissed with damp.

When suddenly the forest fell silent, both men felt a keen sense of foreboding. The sun had not yet fully set, but the trees suddenly seemed watchful and menacing. A startled crow beat heavy black wings as it rose into the sky, squawking a protest.

Arthur stood and quietly drew his sword, staring all around the pool of firelight. Lancelot stood at his back, and both men circled around the fire, peering into the gloom.

There was a suddenly spine-chilling snarl. Arthur turned towards the noise; Lancelot turned to the fire and grabbed a flaming stick from it, thrusting it into Arthur’s free hand, and pulling one out for himself.

With another snarling growl a monstrous creature came into view. It was as tall as Arthur himself, its fangs dripped with foam and its fearsome growls rattled Arthur’s rib cage. Its snout was damp, nostrils flaring; red eyes seemed to glow malevolently in the light from the flames. It turned its head towards Arthur and growled again.

“Gwyllgi,” Lancelot hissed. “It hunts us.”

The Gwyllgi was a mystical dog that haunted lonely roads. It must have smelled them and their horses, and now it was hoping for its own supper. The horses snickered nervously, pulling at their tethers.

“Does it hunt alone?” asked Arthur.

“Aye, sir,” said Lancelot, feinting towards the creature with his flaming branch. Exhilaration flooded through Arthur’s veins.

He leaped forward with a wild cry, flanking the beast as Lancelot sprang round to its other side. The Gwyllgi was torn in three directions; the two feinting, parrying men with their bright, sharp steel swords and flaming branches were a clear threat, but the horses stood in clear invitation, leashed and unable to bolt. Growling its frustration at the defenders of its tempting meal, it slashed its great jaws to one side and another, and lashed out at the men with its enormous, clawed paws, bowling Lancelot over and slicing through his leather jerkin so that Lancelot cried out.

Arthur jumped clear of the treacherous claws, and then thrust forward with an angry cry, cutting up  through the huge beast’s abdomen. His sword made a dull “sh-thunk” sound as it entered the animal’s black flank, through its densely matted fur. With all his strength, he pushed hard into the animal, angling his sword up through its rib-cage towards its heart, all the while evading its flailing limbs.

Lancelot hurriedly pulled himself from under it before he could be crushed as it teetered and fell on its back onto the fire, dousing the flames. The great beast let out a terrible final howl that echoed round the forest for what seemed like minutes as it thrashed around in its death throes, Arthur’s sword still buried in its bleeding guts, a black pool of blood snaking from underneath it into the still undergrowth.

Finally the creature stilled and its terrible eyes lost their uncanny glow. Lancelot lay panting on the mossy greensward, before getting painfully to his feet. When Arthur examined the gash in Lancelot’s side it seemed clean and shallow, but had a black taint to it almost like gangrene; Arthur rinsed it in the spring water and hid his concern.

Arthur, still breathing heavily, pulled his sword free and cleaned it in the stream, which ran black with the fallen Gwyllgi’s blood. Arthur then hauled the beast’s stinking carcass away from the camp and hurled it into a nearby pit.

In the near-dark they sat with their nervous horses, too exhausted and weary to build another fire. Eventually Arthur unfurled his bedroll and bid Lancelot rest his injured side while Arthur stood watch through the night, the high-pitched squeaks of bats and the calls of owls ringing in his ears. And so the restless night passed until the birds resumed their din on a cold, dew-bedecked dawn.

Arthur felt more alive than he had done for months. A fierce exuberance warmed his cold limbs and his cold heart as they resumed their journey. He, a warrior riding to his doom, had bested the beast, his faithful knight by his side. Honour and glory awaited him. He was ready now to grasp his destiny. He grinned at Lancelot, who flashed his teeth in return.

“The woods of Albion are perilous,” said Arthur, “but the desperate men who travel through them are more perilous still.” Lancelot chuckled at that, but stopped and winced with pain from his injured ribs.  The two men carried on their journey in silent companionship until Lancelot began to tire, his breath getting shorter.

“I fear we will have to stop, soon,” Arthur said, when Lancelot let out an involuntary gasp. Lancelot, ever brave, looked like he was going to argue with that but then sighed, realising the wisdom of Arthur’s words.

“We could stop at an inn half a day’s walk from Camelot,” Lancelot suggested at last. “There is a friendly innkeeper there. We can entrust him with our horses, for a small fee. Merlin rescued his young daughter, a girl of seven or so years, who had been captured while she was collecting herbs near Camelot.”

Arthur frowned. “Why did my father capture her?”

“She had been prattling about seeing visions. Agravaine has spies in those parts. One of them must have overheard, and dragged her off to the citadel.”

“Agravaine?” Arthur was shocked at this further evidence of his uncle’s collusion in Uther’s demented purge.

“I am afraid so, Arthur. From what I hear, at Uther’s behest he has been instrumental in setting up a spy network that rounds up magic users at even the faintest rumour. In the main they are executed without trial. Villagers are encouraged to turn in their neighbours. Everyone is mistrustful and fearful of being denounced.”

Arthur’s heart was heavy, and he brooded as he rode.

Agravaine had been rounding up people for execution. Perhaps Merlin had been right about his friend Gilli being one of them. Too many people had suffered for no reason.

His father was far gone in his paranoia. It was time that Arthur put aside his petty quarrels and returned to Camelot to rescue his people from Uther’s madness. He had tarried too long in Caerleon, he thought, bleakly. He had been distracted by his uncle, whispering poison in his ears, and by his consort, confusing him and deceiving him about his magic, growing ever more distant.

Arthur wondered what they would see when they approached the citadel. He had not seen the spires and turrets of Camelot for nine long months. He resolved to return to Camelot as King one day, to rule with justice and strength, and with that resolution he felt a dark, crushing weight lift from his shoulders.

It had been a mistake to move to Caerleon after his quarrel with Uther, a mistake to heed Uther’s wrathful admonishments and threats towards himself and to Merlin. Camelot was his home, and his people needed their King. He should have reconciled himself with Uther, should have tried to shoulder the burden of his father’s disapproval at his choice of consort. He should not have abandoned his people.

He would not shirk that responsibility any more.

And Merlin? In his heart he knew that Merlin would follow him anywhere. From what Arthur had seen these past weeks, Merlin was not happy in Caerleon either. Merlin had shown, by taking on the persona of the Amber Rose, his desire to save his people. He would be a powerful ally, a strong partner, if they could only resolve their many differences and undo each other’s many hurts. Arthur reminded himself that they would have to keep the Amber Rose’s identity and magical talents concealed from Uther, otherwise Merlin’s life would be forfeit and Arthur’s consort would have to remain in exile, or be executed. It was an unpalatable choice, and one that his consort had lived with every day. 

He swallowed a pang of regret when he thought about Merlin hiding his power from Arthur for all those years. He wondered how many times Merlin had lied to him. He had always thought that he knew Merlin inside out, that Merlin was a terrible liar. He thought, now, looking back, that Merlin had tried, more than once, to tell him about his magic.

When he had been nothing to Arthur but an insubordinate but amusing manservant, Merlin had once or twice seemed on the edge of confiding some great secret to him, but Arthur had not given him the time to say anything. Later, he had thought that he had decoded the secret, thinking that it was Merlin’s love for his prince.

It was probably for the best at the time; in those days he would have turned Merlin over to Uther without a thought. And brilliant, mercurial Merlin, with his acidic tongue and his soft heart, cruel and hurtful one moment, warm and insightful the next, would have been lost forever.

He couldn’t bear that thought. For no matter how Merlin had hurt him, had deliberately pushed him away, had rendered him impotently raging, no matter how much Merlin had taunted and humiliated him with his words, Arthur was sure that Merlin had done so out of some misplaced desire to protect his prince.

And again, Merlin had tried to confide in him when he was the prince’s consort. If only Arthur had listened, if only Merlin had been more forceful. They could have worked things out together. They had been friends long before they had become lovers, so entangled in each other’s lives that each had become a necessity to the other.

But Arthur had pushed him away, unconsciously afraid, perhaps, of what Merlin might tell him. And thus the crack between them had widened, until, sensing it, Agravaine had insinuated himself into the crack and made it a rift. And now it was a chasm.

Trust is the foundation of a relationship, and too easy to throw away. Honesty and understanding are the cornerstones of trust. Curiously, now that Merlin’s lies were stripped away, and Arthur understood him better, he found his trust for Merlin’s feelings beginning to return. Finally some of the most puzzling and unsettling things about Merlin were beginning to make perfect sense.

Arthur’s anger at Merlin had steadied to a slow burning simmer. There were still questions to answer but Merlin was in danger, and Arthur must put these questions aside for now.

He glanced over his shoulder at the man who rode at his side. Lancelot, at least, was totally transparent. He had never hidden anything of himself; his devotion to Arthur, his love for Gwen, his admiration for the knights of Camelot, and his loyalty to the Amber Rose had always been clear for all to see. Arthur was grateful to have such a trustworthy man at his side on this fateful quest.

But he couldn’t help wishing for Merlin to be there as well.

As they drew closer to Camelot Lancelot’s breathing became more laborious and the horses began to tire. They slowed to a steady walk, and Arthur realised they would have to stop soon. They drew up just outside a the village that Lancelot had spoken of. The lookout shouted out to them.

“Who goes there?” The voice seemed familiar, somehow.

“Two travellers from Caerleon,” called Arthur.

There was a startled cry from the lookout at the sound of Arthur's voice, who turned to his companions for a whispered conversation before turning back to Arthur and Lancelot.

“Welcome to Combe. We are happy to see travellers from Caerleon. We heard that a monster was attacking and slaying all who travelled that path.”

“Aye, I think we may have encountered the beast. We slew him, but my companion was injured.” He gestured to Lancelot, who was gasping for breath after the gruelling ride; his face was twisted, pained.There were more gasps and a delegation ran out to greet them, to help Lancelot down from his steed, with great thanks for their deeds. But when they saw the prince upon his noble horse, there could be no dissembling or disguise.

“Prince Arthur,” gasped the lookout.

"Elyan," said Arthur, his face split in a disbelieving smile. "You're alive! We were all so worried about you! Guinevere will be overjoyed!"

The two men grasped forearms joyfully and embraced.

Elyan! Elyan was alive, and free! 


	8. Flying In And Out Each Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur encounters some unexpected help and curious characters in the inn where Elyan had been staying. He sends Elyan and Lancelot back to Caerleon, and then makes his way to Camelot in disguise, together with a new companion.

Elyan had been at the village for a few weeks; he had fled Uther, and been living in the woods, but the villagers had known his father, and had welcomed him into their midst as a strong and able warrior. In these distrustful times, workers and fighters were always at a premium. He had taken up residence in the local inn.

Elyan turned to Lancelot. “Sir Lancelot, you are wounded,” he said. “Let us help you.” Eager hands helped Lancelot to disembark gingerly from his horse; he could walk, with help. Arthur watched him with concern. He was not sure that Lancelot would be able to continue.

All around them they heard whispers.

“Prince Arthur slew the monster!”

“Prince Arthur is returning to Camelot. We will be saved!”

“Prince Arthur is here!”

Humbled by the heroes’ welcome they received while they rode into the village, Arthur realised nevertheless that all chance of concealment was gone. He knew how powerful the rumour mill was; the news would already be en route to the next village, and would reach Camelot by nightfall.

“We will not be able to stay here,” said Lancelot in a whispered aside. “Word will get back to Uther all too soon I fear.”

“I will leave at once for Camelot, if the villagers can help us with fresh horses,” Arthur replied. “You, my friend, must return to Caerleon, for you are injured.”

“But sire!” Lancelot began to protest. Arthur raised his hand and furrowed his brow, stopping his companion’s speech short. Unlike some people Arthur could mention, Lancelot obeyed his Prince’s instructions to be quiet without question, Arthur thought ruefully, inwardly rolling his eyes and feeling a sudden pang of concern about Merlin; time was running short he had a sudden urgent desire to warn his consort before it was too late. He must get to Camelot that night.

“Alas, I fear I must send you back, Lancelot. I am hoping that our friend Elyan will accompany you. He will doubtless be keen to see his sister.” And, Arthur silently added, you are likely to be brothers soon.

Lancelot looked frustrated but nodded, realising that with his injury he would not be much help to Arthur in a fight. Arthur felt a lightening of his burden; he was looking forward to travelling alone through the forest; this was an area he knew well, and he could easily lose himself in its quiet spaces if he needed to. He had often hunted in these lands with Merlin.

He was weary and had not slept, but would not bring danger on these people by sheltering in their home. So, he dismissed the villagers’ welcoming protestations that they must stay overnight, and instead contented himself with a brief meal stop at a local inn which went by the name of “The Pendragon Arms”. A crudely drawn dragon was displayed outside; the dog-roses that clambered up its walls were not yet in flower, but would be a pretty display soon.

The door of warm, brown oak opened easily under his touch and as Arthur entered, alone, he was met by the familiar scent of fermenting ale, and stale dregs, intermingled with polished oak and the tangy, lingering aroma of hard manual labour. Inside, the inn was quiet and cool; the villagers were either conferring with Elyan and Lancelot outside, organising Lancelot’s onward journey, or in the fields labouring, planting crops.

The innkeeper was busying himself in a back room; Arthur could hear the clatter and din of a busy kitchen, with shouted commands in mixed male and female voices. The inn looked well-tended, and Arthur found himself wondering if he’d heard of the alewives who brewed for this village.

A young girl of some seven summers was wiping the tables down with a damp cloth. She was dark-skinned, tumbling curls cascaded down her shoulders, and huge black eyes regarded him as he strode up to the bar. Arthur found himself blinking for her, willing her to do the same.

“Is you the prince what’ll pull the sword from the stone?” she said, a country burr softening her accent. “I seed you in my dream.”

Putting down her cloth, she inserted her thumb into her mouth, her fist curling about her nose. She had unruly black curls that tumbled into her face, one of which she brushed away with her other hand.

Arthur frowned as her father came across to him, apologising and picking her up, making to whisk her away.

“Come on little Niniane,” the innkeeper said, and Arthur saw that he, too, was dark-skinned; his hair was tight-curled and greying, cut short to his head, and he had a kind smile on his face as he beamed at his daughter, but he looked a little scared too, as if concerned for her. “No need to bother the prince with your stories.”

“Wait,” said Arthur, frowning. “It’s all right, you may leave her be. I will not harm her. I am interested in her dream. I wonder, Niniane, have you heard of the Amber Rose?”

She nodded, still in her father’s arms, her mouth curving up in a smile around her thumb.

“He saveded me from the mad king,” she said, nodding solemnly. “He pickeded me up on a big dragon and takeded me home. He telled me a prince would come one day, the prince I seed in my dream, and the prince is wise and kind, and the prince is handsome and brave, and the prince’ll save us all from the mad king,” she babbled, removing her thumb from her mouth, revealing a large gap in her top row of teeth.

“The prince’ll be strong, and he’ll slay monsters, and fight bad men who hurt people, and he’ll help poor people,” she went on, warming to her theme. “Is it you? Is you the prince? I seed you in my dream. You look like him.”

“Did the Amber Rose tell you the name of this oh-so-perfect prince?” said Arthur.

“Arfur,” she said, slipping out of her father’s arms and approaching Arthur where he sat. “He said Arfur is the prince I seed in my dream. Prince Arfur’ll pull the sword from the stone.” She examined him intently. “You look just like him, I reckon?”

 Arthur’s heart was in his mouth. He didn’t know what to make of her story. But surely she was the girl whom the Amber Rose had rescued. Lancelot had told him about her during their long ride. No wonder Agravaine and Uther did not want her babbling about her dreams around Camelot.

“Hush child,” said Arthur, putting his finger to her lips in a warning and locking eyes with her father, who nodded, grim-faced. “Hush, it’s a big secret. A big girl like you must be good at make believe. You must pretend to bad men who might come that you didn’t have this dream. But yes, I think it might be me, in your dream, because my name is Arfur.” And he laughed, ruefully, catching himself mispronouncing his own name. “Arthur, I mean. So it is all right, telling me about it. I’d like to hear all about your dream. Tell me more about the sword in the stone,” said Arthur, curious about the vision “was it glittering, and sparkly? Or plain and sharp, like this one?”

He unsheathed the top of his sword a little, so she could see the shine of the blade before he slid it back into its scabbard. He beckoned to her and, with a questioning look at her father, who nodded, she settled on Arthur’s lap, a warm weight on his thighs like a curled-up cat. Her father gave her a rag-doll which she bullied and preened while she spoke.

“It looked like that one, but pointy, and shiny, with all gold bits on the end,” she released her grip on the rag-doll pointed at the hilt of his plain sword. “It had writing on it. The men said, ‘what does it say’, and the scary big stick-man said, ‘it says on one side pick me up and on the other side set me down. Its name is Excalibur.’”

“Who was the scary big stick man then?” said Arthur. “Was he made of sticks? Or did he carry a stick? Was he the handsome prince?”

“No! He was scary and his voice was all deep and heavy. I couldn’t see his face, he sounded all angry and fierce. He waved his stick in the air and shouted at everyone. Lots of people were standing there.”

“What did he say, this big scary stick man?” Arthur said gravely. Her company was strangely relaxing, although her direct unblinking gaze was still unsettling. He found himself slipping into her way of speaking.

“He said,” and she coughed, putting on what Arthur could tell was meant to be a deep, booming voice, stumbling over the unfamiliar words that she had learned “’Who…msoever pulls this sword from the stone is the ri…rightful king born of all Albion,’ and then some men comed and tried to get the sword, but they couldn’t, and then a lady tried, and she couldn’t, and then they all shouted at each other, and then you comed, and you pulleded the sword out, and you sticked it in one of the men, and he lay down on the floor with all blood coming out of him. He looked a bit surprised,” she said solemnly, looking up at him through long, dark lashes.

“I expect he did,” said Arthur, flustered, for the sake of saying something. He sighed. Visions were tricky things; he’d rather poke sharp metal objects in enemies until they stopped breathing than try to interpret visions. He wished he had Gaius with him, or Merlin, and then, remembering himself, felt a sudden echo of his earlier wrath towards his consort. He pushed the girl away from him, thanking her and giving her a silver coin, which she pocketed with a flash of gappy teeth. She went back to her chore.

A stooped old woman with matted grey hair came across to where Arthur sat, and served him a plate of moist and silky-textured meat stew with light, fluffy dumplings, and a jug of weak pale ale. The old woman smelt vile; she stank like a midden. He shied away from her instinctively, although the food smelt wonderful. She grinned at him toothlessly; her face was covered in warts, some of which had thick hairs growing out of them.

Arthur sat, ravenously eating this unexpectedly delicious meal, brooding over what he had heard, and planning his next move. Lancelot hobbled in to join him with Elyan and they conferred together in low voices. Arthur beckoned to the old woman for more food.

“Bring more food, old woman,” he said, trying not to gag at her really peculiar odour.

“I have a name, sire,” she said in a crackly, tight voice, pouting. Arthur rolled his eyes. “I am called Emma.”

It was an incongruous name for such a pathetic figure, he thought uncharitably. His lip started to curl up in distaste at her smell and he shuddered, just a little.

“A pretty name,” he found himself saying, at a loss for aught else to say. He tried not to flinch when she leered at him flirtatiously. “Can you bring more food, Emma? My companions are hungry.”

“Indeed, sire. A ‘please’ might not go amiss,” she added, simpering. Arthur frowned. Of all the impertinent, ugly, vile-smelling old crones in Albion, he had to be served by this one.

“More food, please, Emma,” he said finally, and possibly a little abruptly, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to move until he either addressed her thus, or threatened her with violence, and by all the gods he was tempted by the latter course of action. “And, Innkeeper, please bring more ale.”

“My son-in-law has a name, too, sire,” the woman, Emma something, said. And really he was beginning to lose patience with her, respect for her venerable age notwithstanding. “His name is Aelfred.” And finally she backed away from him, bowing obsequiously.

Arthur shook his head, and dismissed the strange old alewife from his mind. He called to the innkeeper.

“It is clear to me, Aelfred,  that by being here we are endangering you and your family,” Arthur said in a low, urgent voice.

Aelfred swallowed and nodded. He had clearly had similar concerns, but had provided his hospitality and trust anyway. Arthur would not see the man’s loyalty repaid by Uther’s wrath.

“If you are questioned I urge you and others in the village to tell Uther’s men that you did see me, and you sent me away, alone. It is the truth, after all. Tell them that you questioned me and sent me away without any food or drink; tell him that I fought you and overpowered you; whatever you do, don’t let him know that you have helped me, or he will punish you and your family, and I cannot live with the consequences. I beg you to promise me this.”

The innkeeper nodded.

“Tell them that I am headed to Camelot and that I will not rest until I reach it. That is nothing but the truth, and it will draw them away from you. Tell them that I stole a horse.”

Aelfred coughed a little and leaned across to them.

“Sire, it may be better if you could go to Camelot in disguise; guards are searching all who enter the citadel, and the entrances are all guarded, even during the day.”

Arthur was surprised and saddened at this; it was a sign of straitened times. He exhaled, wearily.

“If I may make a suggestion, sire?”

“Yes, go ahead, Aelfred.”

“My old mother-in-law, Emma, is from Camelot. She is due to return there today with a delivery of ale for the Rising Sun this afternoon. It would be an act of great kindness if you could escort her thence, not least because it means that I can stay here at my inn and help to defend the town should Uther choose to vent his ire upon us. The wagon is ready to depart; the horse is already shackled. It is a valuable cargo, and I would not see it travel unescorted.”

Arthur frowned. It was a great risk; the old woman looked frail, like she might keel over and die at any minute. Alone, he knew that he could fight and defeat most enemies. He was not sure he wanted the burden of the elderly alewife, and her precious cargo.

Besides, the prospect of an afternoon with this vile-smelling female was not exactly enticing. She was standing too near him, and wafts of it kept puffing across him in waves. It was all he could do not to hold his nose.

Lancelot leaned forward, wincing at the pain in his side, and grinning at Arthur’s obvious discomfiture.

“Sire, the suggestion has merit. If you could see to disguising your appearance – maybe covering your hair – you might pass as an escort for the ale. Emily, here,” he looked inquiringly at the old maid.

“Emma, sir, not Emily,” she said pertly.

“Emma, here,” continued Lancelot adroitly, “could say that Aelfred here is indisposed, if asked, and that you are his neighbour? She could say you are mute, if you like; then you won’t have to reveal your voice.”

And so Arthur reluctantly agreed to the scheme. The ale wagon was towed by a large, lumbering shire-horse, which was slower than his favoured steed, but faster than walking.

Leaving a generous number of coins for Aelfred, Arthur took leave of Elyan and Lancelot in the tavern, urging them to make haste back to Caerleon. And, wearing a borrowed, plain, stained, but serviceable cloak, which smelt of beer and horses, he hopped aboard the ale wagon.

Tonight he would warn Merlin about the trap, and Merlin would escape from Agravaine’s murderous plan, from Arthur’s betrayal.

Tonight he would save his sister from Uther’s madness, he would plead with his father, settle his score with Agravaine, and would wash away the stink of treachery with honour and glory. And then, well, he would see about confronting that bumbling idiot, his consort, about his deceits.

The ale cart;s huge, wooden wheels turned slowly as it trundled  out of the village and along the rutted path to Camelot.  All being well, they would be there in under two hours.

He couldn’t wait.


	9. Agravaine Broods Into His Empty Flagon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a tavern in Camelot... they call "The Rising Sun." [with apologies to The Animals]

It turned out that Aelfred’s noxious-smelling mother-in-law did not normally drive the wagon; she was totally useless at it. Arthur was nearly jerked out of his seat as she lurched across a rut, nearly toppling the ale barrels off the wagon completely. The horse reared and nearly dislodged her from her perch.

“For heaven’s sake!” Arthur exclaimed, testily, grabbing the reins from her, his temper fraying. “I’ll steer.”

“I’m sorry sire,” she croaked. “Aelfred normally does all the driving; I’m just a poor old alewife.”

I’ll bet, thought Arthur gloomily as she edged closer. His patience was running very thin.

Relieved of her duty to steer the wagon, she saw fit to regale Arthur with bawdy tales she had heard in the taverns of Camelot and surrounding villages. Arthur wished he could close his ears, and his nose for that matter. The woman really was an unsavoury companion.

The wagon drew through a meadow, bedecked with a profusion of wildflowers and butterflies, and Arthur was sure that the scent should have been heavenly, but instead all he could smell was the peculiar mixture of rotten fish-guts, offal and human excrement that she seemed to be generating in the spring sunshine.

He winced at one particularly lewd cackle. She had been singing, lustily, off-key, a ditty about Agravaine’s doubtful prowess in the sack. Arthur eventually yelled at her to shut up, for the love of all the gods, whilst at the same time trying to suppress a wry smile at her effrontery. She fell quiet for a moment and then leaned forward. The stench was overpowering. He leaned away from her. It must have made quite a comical picture.

“Would you like me to tell your fortune, Prince Arthur,” she said, in an ingratiating voice. Arthur shuddered.

“No thank you,” he replied firmly, but politely. “I prefer to make my own fortune.”

She nodded and returned to her seat, smiling.

 “You are a brave prince, sure and true of intention,” she said simply, in her strange, cracked voice. “One day you will be a great king. You will draw the sword from the stone, as it is foretold, I am sure of it.” Then she thankfully fell silent, and Arthur resumed his brooding.

How could he be worthy of this honour, of being High King of all Albion? The vision could not be true, surely. Arthur had been outwitted by his uncle and his consort, condemned by his father; he had unwittingly betrayed the man he loved, had been foiled and fooled at every turn. Even his own knights and friends had been concealing things from him; they had known the identity of the Amber Rose, but sought to keep it from him to protect him from himself. Was he such a bumbling idiot that he could not be entrusted with such information? How little those he cared for thought of him. How little he thought of himself.

In this moment, thought Arthur gloomily, he was not worthy of such an honour. He had surrounded himself with liars and pushed them away when they sought to tell him the truth. Probably even the vile old witch sitting at his side had some gruesome secret. He spent a morbid moment considering what terrible crime she might have done. He sneaked a look at her grizzled profile and shuddered.

“Old Woman,” he was about to begin, before stopping himself. She had been right, he realised; he had been discourteous in the tavern. A knight must be courteous at all times. He had disobeyed his own code.

“Goodwife Emma,” he began instead, turning to her. “Do you have any guilty secrets? Is it normal, do you suppose, to conceal terrible truths from those you love?”

Emma turned to him, her face hidden beneath her hood. A startled blackbird flapped off the path in front of the wagon, tick-tick-ticking its alarm.

“Although I myself have been honest and open throughout my life, as I was taught, it has been my experience,” Arthur went on, lazily flicking the reins, “that those around me are concealing things, hiding their true nature from me. Is this unusual do you think? Is it a curse that is laid upon me?”

The foul-smelling old witch snorted and spoke in a crackly voice. “There are many reasons why people may conceal things about themselves, fair prince. As a prince, you are in a position of power over people. Little wonder that they conceal things about themselves that may make you judge them harshly.”

“I am beginning to believe that as a prince there is no-one I can truly trust,” he said glumly, bumping over a particularly large stone, as the wagon passed a hawthorn hedgerow, white with blossom, a cloud of bluebells at its foot. 

“Then trust in yourself, brave prince,” she said. “Prove to yourself that you are worthy, and if you truly believe it then others will follow.” 

She fell silent for a moment, regarding him slyly from beneath her hood and gently brushing an inquisitive bumblebee from her skirts.

“If you are asking me, sire, then I will reply truly; yes I am concealing secrets from you, as you have secrets of your own. But then again, perhaps it is for the best. For what handsome prince would wish to know that an old crone harbours lustful thoughts towards him in her advanced age?”

Arthur barked a surprise laugh, shoving her shoulder as he might one of his knights.

“Well said, Old W… Goodwife Emma,” he choked, and she rapped him hard on the back, cackling. Perhaps she was right, there were some things that it was best to keep hidden. His mood lightened at their friendly exchange. 

His heart started to beat faster as they approached the familiar outline of his beloved Camelot. He felt stirred at the sight of Camelot’s proud profile against the sky, the Pendragon pennant fluttering bravely in the cool spring breeze. The sky was was pregnant with the impending sunset. Camelot looked beautiful and deadly. He felt a mingled sense of homecoming and impending crisis. His blood surged with excitement.

He lifted his hood over his head and let the alewife do the talking when they approached the citadel, where two of Uther’s personal guard were checking all those who entered.

“Who are you and where are you going?” asked the first guard, coming up to them, and then retreating a little when confronted by the old woman’s overpowering smell. Arthur felt suddenly grateful for it; it was like a second cloak, he realised, and peered at her, suddenly curious.

“I am just an old alewife, Emma of Combe, delivering ale to the Rising Sun in Camelot,” she said, cackling and bowing her head. Arthur also bowed his head.

“And him?” said the second guard, pointing a thumb at Arthur and drawing a scarf across his nose to ward off the rank odour that was emanating from the dirty old crone in waves. Arthur could have sworn it had got worse in the last five minutes.

“Him? He’s my dumb neighbour, Ulfric. My son-in-law is sick, so my neighbour is helping me to guard the ale today. You won’t get much out of him; he is afflicted, but has his uses in standing watch over my cargo, and at least he can’t complain too much, being struck dumb.”

The guard nodded, eyes darting to the next incoming wagon. They would need to get everyone inside the citadel before sunset curfew. They had several more wagons to process and saw no need to linger on a smelly old alewife; besides which, they had plans for the barrels of nectar that she had stowed on the back. They waved her through.

Arthur exhaled, gently, not realising that he had been holding his breath. As he inhaled again, he regretted that, nearly choking on the woman’s powerful stench. He wondered if she was able to make it stronger at will, and then dismissed the thought. After all, who would want to make others recoil from them in disgust?

When the familiar sight of the Rising Sun hove into view, Arthur felt a prickling in his eyes. The inn had been a site for many happy, bawdy evenings spent carousing with his knights and companions over the years. But tonight’s business was more grave and portentous.

They drew up to the inn and Arthur got down from the wagon to help unload the barrels, trying desperately to keep his face out of view. Emma, seeing his ill-at-ease manner, bid him wait for her in the taproom while she fetched the innkeeper to unload the rest of the barrels.

The Rising Sun was an altogether livelier, shabbier, and more excitable tavern than the Pendragon Arms at Combe had been. The inn door was stained and plain; the once gaily painted sign was tattered and peeling.  Arthur slipped gratefully into the hubbub of the taproom, eyes down, but watchful, as he slid past tables and benches full of greedily slurping men, ignoring the noise of dice, of coins passed across tables, of the rough protests of gamesters.

He made his way to the back of the taproom where he sat, pretending to quaff ale from a large flagon, trying to get his bearings and seeking a familiar figure somewhere in the room. He had to warn Merlin; surely Merlin was here by now. But try as he might, he could not see that familiar skinny figure anywhere in the room.

Camelot’s jailkeeper was sitting on a table not far away, where Arthur could keep a close eye on him. He was deep in his cups, and spending what remained of his wages on a lively game of knucklebones. Emma came to sit with Arthur, and a comical picture he must have made, sidling away from her to sit as far away as possible without being rude. She also nursed a flagon of ale; the two of them sat silently spooning a bowl of stew - inferior to the delicious concoction served at the Pendragon Arms in Combe, but welcome for all that. 

Someone started singing a bawdy song about Agravaine’s personal attributes. Agravaine was clearly not a popular figure in Camelot.

“Old Agravaine keeps a mouse in his pants, a mouse in his pants, a mouse in his pants,” this particular witty ditty began. “Old Agravaine keeps a mouse in his pants, oh yes oh yes he does.” Arthur wondered if Merlin had anything to do with any of these popular refrains.

The song gradually escalated and after a while the whole taproom was adding larger and larger animals to the assortment that Agravaine purportedly kept stashed in his underclothing. Arthur rolled his eyes as Emma joined in enthusiastically. The old woman certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, he thought. Belching loudly, she excused herself and shuffled off to the privy, giving Arthur’s tortured nose a brief respite.

A few moments later, the assembled company fell suddenly silent, apart from one drunken fellow, who carried on singing about the whereabouts of Agravaine’s goat until one of his companions thumped him and he fell senseless under the table. You could have heard a pin drop. Arthur turned to peer out from under his hood at what was causing this uncharacteristic behaviour, and inhaled sharply.

Agravaine and four of Uther’s guards had entered the inn, Pendragon-red cloaks swirling about glinting chainmail, swords drawn. Agravaine’s face was set in a thunderous scowl. He examined the face of every person in the room, while the guards prevented anyone from leaving. Arthur realised that he was not going to be able to keep his disguise any longer. He sighed, and dropped his hood, getting to his feet.

Agravaine stepped over to him, grinning coldly.

“Well met, nephew,” he said. “Guards – hold on to him.”

Two of the ruffians who had come in with him made to capture Arthur, but he shrugged them off easily and drew his sword.

“Kill me now, and Morgana dies,” Agravaine warned.

“I wasn’t planning on killing you, Uncle,” purred Arthur. “Merely roughing you up a little,” and he leapt onto the table, feinting towards his uncle before leapfrogging two drunken farmers onto the bar, amid a clattering of flagons and tankards. The inhabitants of the taproom moved aside, leaving an empty ring around Agravaine, who approached Arthur with a sly smile on his face.

“So, Arthur, it seems you are more familiar with the Amber Rose than you were letting on when we had our little talk,” he began in a confidential tone, which didn’t negate the fact that twenty-five pairs of drunken ears were listening and learning. “It appears, Arthur, that you are very familiar indeed with him, in face. I have heard that it is no other than your consort…”

At that moment, as if on cue, a familiar voice could be heard outside the tavern, lifted in song.

“Old Angryvein keeps a fox in his pants, fox in his pants, fox in his pants,” Merlin sang, in a creditable tenor. Arthur tensed; a vein in Agravaine’s forehead pulsed as he ground his jaw. “Old Angryvein keeps a fox in his pants, but the fox doesn’t like it at all!”

“Merlin, fly away you blithering idiot! It’s a trap!” Arthur yelled at the top of his voice, incensed, staring around him for the source of the voice; all thought of his careful warning had gone. The voice stopped.

Agravaine motioned to his men; they started to edge out of the room. Agravaine feinted towards Arthur and backed away. Arthur growled. All this skulking about was too much for him. He wanted a fight. He rushed after Agravaine, murderous intent clear in his eyes, towards the door. He slashed Agravaine twice, disarming him with the first attack, and slicing through his chainmail into his arm with the second. First blood. Arthur grinned fiercely as Agravaine turned to run out of the door.

Arthur was conscious of the rabble behind him cheering him on as he peered cautiously through the door, narrowly avoiding getting brained by the sword-hilt of one of Agravaine’s guards, and then neatly sliced the guard’s hand, disarming him as well. His identity was no longer a secret; the assembled ruffians of Camelot were shouting his name in approval.

His blood was up now, and he roared for Agravaine. Arthur stayed in the doorway of the tavern looking out, his lusty supporters at his back. But when Agravaine turned back towards him, smiling, and beckoning to the ten guards that now stood behind him, Arthur realised that he was running out of options. Four to one he could manage; ten to one was too much even for him. Resolved to do as much damage as he could before he was taken out, he roared a final challenge at his uncle and charged towards him, sword poised to thrust through his uncle’s treacherous guts if he could. But one of the guards had his wits about him, and brought Arthur down with a blow to the back of his head.

When Arthur regained consciousness, he found himself alone on the floor of a cell in Uther’s dungeons. He touched the back of his head, wincing when he found a large egg-shaped bump there. Bringing away his hand he could see blood on his fingers. He reached for his sword and dagger, but they had gone, along with his belt.

Although fresh rushes lay on his floor, the floor was coated in nameless filth. A bare wooden bench furnished the tiny cell; a slop bucket stood in the corner.

Half a dozen sore-headed, hungover carousers graced the neighbouring cell. Unlike them, he had been given a plate of food and a water skin. Sighing, he took a bite or two of food and a sip of water, and then passed it through the bars to the hungry men on the other side. He had more need of allies than nutrition.

Arthur was trapped, imprisoned again, and no closer to releasing his sister. Although he felt a brief stab of satisfaction at wounding Agravaine, he knew that the wound was not serious. He had no doubt that he would face his father soon, and there would be a reckoning. He would plead with his father for mercy for Morgana. He required no mercy for himself; if he was lucky he would get another chance to skewer Agravaine before himself being executed.

At least Merlin was free. Arthur felt relieved. Arthur was absolved; his shouted warning must have been enough to alert him to the danger, for Merlin was not among the men in the dungeon.

As the men groaned helplessly about their plight, there was a clattering of guards down the steps. Two of Uther’s guardsmen held between them a black, protesting bundle. They held the bundle gingerly, as if it burned them, and opening Arthur’s cell, they flung it inside.

“Perhaps this will clear your head, Prince,” one of them said, chuckling. The pile of rags they had flung on the floor stank with a familiar odour, and moved just a little, coughing and rasping, before collapsing down onto the floor, moaning with pain and then lying still, face down, limbs awry. Arthur recognised the foul stench emanating from it. Despite the overcrowding, the men in the neighbouring cell backed away, choking and making crude remarks.

Arthur sighed. It was his companion from the trail, Emma. He supposed she had been arrested at the Rising Sun with the rest of the miscreants. And it seemed that she had been singled out for special treatment – perhaps she had been accused of witchcraft.

Ignoring the smell for a moment, although it made him want to gag, for it was stronger than ever, he knelt at her side and let out an involuntary gasp. Her clothes were shredded as if she had been whipped. He touched her arm but she did not move; his hand came away covered in blood. Her ragged clothes were mixed in with flayed flesh and blood; her breath was rasping, her hands clawed in agony. He had seen strong men die from lesser wounds.

Arthur was furious. The woman was rude and insubordinate, yes; she had no idea of her station, and she stank like a latrine, but that was no reason to treat her like a common criminal.

But he had no time to help her, for rough arms tugged him away. Even as he struggled, he was overpowered by four armed guards who manhandled his flailing legs into chains. He managed, with a flash of satisfaction, to land a hefty blow one man’s stomach. The man curled over, coughing, but one of his companions twisted Arthur’s arms into a painful lock and tied them tightly together behind his back.

As he was pushed roughly out of the cell, which clanged shut behind him, Arthur realised that his uncle was standing outside, an amused expression on his face, arms folded. Arthur spat into Agravaine’s face; his uncle glowered and took the opportunity to hit Arthur, hard, in the nose. Arthur cursed.

“Come to gloat, you treacherous snake?” asked Arthur. Agravaine shrugged.

“Uther wishes to see you,” he said. “If it were up to me, I would have you killed without trial for your protection of magic users, for your close association with the foul Amber Rose, and your assault on the King’s brother-in-law. But for some strange reason Uther is sentimental about you, and insists on hearing you first.”

Arthur felt a fierce moment of triumph. This was what he had sought: an opportunity to lay his cards on the table before his father and plead his sister’s cause. He felt a renewed sense of purpose as he turned his mind to the task at hand. 


	10. Cursing at his awful cheek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur faces Uther and Agravaine in the council chamber. A highly charged game of accusation and counter-accusation follows, and Uther pronounces his judgment.

The men led Arthur up the steps from the dungeons. The chains that bound his ankles were shorter than the height of each step on the stairs, so he stumbled as he tried to ascend them. Each time he stumbled Agravaine thrust him forward so that his knees jarred onto the jagged stone steps. By the time he was at the top his legs were bloody and bruised, and he could only hobble, but he refused to cry out.

Agravaine led him thus to Uther’s throne room. Uther was holding his mid-day audiences, and the chamber held an assortment of courtiers and knights. Agravaine thrust Arthur ignominiously to the floor onto his sore knees. A boot to his backside sent him sprawling onto his face; unable to put out a hand to stop himself, he turned his head to avoid crushing his nose, bashing his forehead on the flagstones.

He heard steps as his father approached him from the throne, but did not look up.

“Your son, Arthur, sire,” said Agravaine.

A pair of leather boots stopped inches from Arthur’s face and one royal knee bent to the floor. Uther lifted Arthur’s chin. His eyes seemed cold and distant. Arthur’s heart sank. He would see no mercy here, he thought.

“Arthur,” Uther began, walking back to the throne, sounding bored, the voice Arthur's father reserved for those whom he had already condemned in his heart. “I do not wish to deceive you. I will not be pardoning your crimes today. But for the love of my wife who bore you, I will hear you speak.” He sat and arraigned his cloak over his knees; he must have motioned to the guards, because Arthur felt himself pulled up to kneel. “First of all I would hear from you about the evil sorcerer known as the Amber Rose, on whose identity and whereabouts we believe you may be able to shed some light.”

Arthur chuckled, hollowly. At least Merlin was free, he thought.

“I do not know where he is, Father,” he said honestly. On the matter of his identity he remained silent.

Uther nodded, and continued impatiently, “but is the rumour true? Is the sorcerer your consort, Merlin? The very man over whom you and I quarrelled, some months ago?”

Arthur swallowed. He could gain nothing by refusing to answer, or by lying.

“Yes, Father,” he said eventually, lifting his chin proudly. “I believe that it is.” He tried to ignore the triumphant grin that spread across Agravaine’s face with his words.

“You believe? Why, has he not confided in you?”

“No, Father, not directly. He and I… have become estranged.”

“Pity,” said Uther, his voice detached. “Be that as it may, you will tell me now where he is.”

“I heard his voice at the Rising Sun last night, but I did not see him, and I believe that he escaped Agravaine’s incapable grasp. You might want to look for a more competent sergeant to pursue your enemies. Agravaine could not find his arse with both hands,” said Arthur, venomously, repeating Merlin’s apt epithet with grim satisfaction. Agravaine kicked him hard in the kidneys; Arthur sprawled, once more, onto the floor, rapping his forehead on the smooth, well-worn flagstones.

“Very well,” said Uther with a heavy, regretful sigh, “as you cannot or will not provide the information I require, I have no option but to render your life forfeit, according to the laws of Camelot, for aiding a magic user. Tell me why I should not execute you straight away.” Arthur rose, painfully, to his knees, gazing at his father, who now sat, staring out of the window as he continued. “You are accused of consorting with sorcerers, aiding magic users to escape the kingdom. How do you plead?”

Arthur hung his head for a moment and then looked up.

“I am guilty, sire, as you know, by the laws of Camelot, although I no longer share your belief that all magic users are inherently evil.” A collective gasp rang round the audience chamber at this heretical statement. “I have come to know many magic users in my time in Caerleon," Arthur went on, "and few, if any, of them use their magic for any ill purpose; mostly it is used for healing and nurturing. Conversely, I have met many men whose purpose is evil but who do not use magic. One such stands by your side in this room.” A murmur arose around him as he struggled to his feet.  

“My life is forfeit,” Arthur continued, raising his voice to be heard above the clamour, “My life is forfeit, but, sire, before you have me killed, I wish to warn you of a grave danger to your person. There are those who do not have your best interests, nor Camelot’s, at heart; those who plot and scheme for their own advancement. One such stands next to you; his name is Agravaine. He wishes to become heir to the throne, and as soon as he secures his wish, he plots to kill you and take Camelot for himself.”

Agravaine’s eyes locked with Arthur’s in a murderous glare, and Arthur knew in that moment that his accusation was true. Uther, however frowned; Arthur carried on, shouting now as the din around them increased at his words.

“For the love of Camelot, and the love that you once had for me as your son, I beg you, Father, to reconsider your trust in this man, whom I have found to be untrustworthy, cowardly and treacherous.”

Agravaine laughed at Arthur’s words, but his laugh sounded hollow and tense; murmurs and whispers echoed around the court. The seeds of doubt about Agravaine’s loyalty were publicly sown, thought Arthur, triumphantly.

“Father, I know my life is forfeit, but I come not to plead my own cause, but to trade my life for that of my sister, Morgana,” he went on. Uther turned his head, eyes narrowing, focusing on Arthur’s for the first time. Arthur shivered involuntarily at the ice in Uther’s stare. He could see no human feeling in it, but still he went on, he had to say his piece.

“Morgana was but a child when she came here,” said Arthur. “I cannot truly believe her to be evil. I wish to exchange my life for hers, I beg you to free her into the care of Queen Annis at Caerleon.” The hubbub in the room was getting louder; courtiers were turning and squabbling. Arthur wondered if he would be able to take advantage of the confusion to escape somehow; he flexed the muscles in his arms; as he spoke he worked to try to free his hands from the rope, but it was to no avail, the bonds were too tight.

“You dare mention that name here,” Uther hissed. “The witch Morgana will be burned at dawn two days hence, as will the witch Emma who accompanied you here. As for you, Arthur, by pleading for her you have confirmed your guilt. You will watch them burn, and then you will be hanged like a common criminal.

Arthur let out an involuntary gasp. “Hanged? Sire, no! Please… I served you with honour for many years, for pity’s sake I beg you…” The dishonour struck him hard and he stumbled to his knees.

Uther looked down at his fingernails, as if bored. “This is my final word. The court is dismissed.”

Uther motioned to Agravaine, whose lip curled in anticipation as four guards from the main party fell into step behind him and they led Arthur back to the dungeons, his arms still tied and legs still shackled, so that he slipped and fell headlong down the steps, hitting his head hard at the bottom. He lay for a moment, stunned. Footsteps approached him and Arthur felt a sudden, sharp pain as a boot connected with his unprotected ribs.

“You will pay for denouncing me, Arthur Pendragon,” Agravaine growled, an ugly sneer upon his face. A foot pinioned Arthur to the floor. “It’s the best thing I have ever done,” spat Arthur, “you mealy-mouthed, treacherous, weak-chinned, dishonourable bully. You would not dare fight me if I were not outnumbered and shackled. I would pummel you into a pulp with my sword, mash up the pieces and throw them to the dogs to use as their latrine.” Gods, it felt good to insult that smug-faced, insidious weasel.

Agravaine grabbed Arthur’s hair and forced his head up, sharply. He pressed his face to Arthur’s ear, so that Arthur could smell his breath, and the other men could not hear him.

“How did you know what I was planning?” he hissed. “Who betrayed me?”

Arthur grinned, grimly, and spat. “It was a lucky guess,” he said. “How did you know that Merlin was the Amber Rose? Who told you?”

 “It seems that luck runs in the family, for I knew no such thing,” Agravaine said, smirking. “I was merely seeking to undermine Merlin in your eyes and Uther’s… until you condemned him, in front of Uther, with your very own words. I could not have planned your betrayal of your loyal consort better myself.” Arthur felt crushed. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he raged at himself, condemning Merlin in front of the whole court. Of course Agravaine had not known anything; when could he have found out? Of course he was guessing. He could not afford to be so naive with his uncle, whose ambition knew no restraint; Arthur's mouth tasted bitter with bile and he let out an involuntary gasp as Agravaine threw his head back, laughing.

“Arthur, you really are such an innocent,” he said, face suddenly spiteful. “You would have made a terrible king.” He drew back his foot and his boot hit Arthur’s jaw with a crack. "Such a tragedy," he went on, "such a desperate shame about your untimely death."

Arthur groaned and tilted his head, working his tongue, and spitting blood mixed with saliva onto Agravaine’s boot. This last provocation was enough for Agravaine finally to smack his boot hard against Arthur’s head. Arthur was weary, weak with hunger and thirst, and insensible with pain; he fell into a swoon, the voices of the men around him dimming to a distant, hostile murmur as he was finally launched into the cell he shared with the old woman, Emma. He found himself distantly wondering if she lived, still, before falling into a deep coma. 


	11. Amber Rose, Uther does implore you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur wakes up in his cell he hears an unexpected voice. Can the two prisoners resolve their differences and spring their trap?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles adapted from “The Scarlet Pimpernel” musical, with apologies to lyricist Nan Knighton

It was hunger that woke Arthur in the end. He was cramped, and his muscles ached; there was a gnawing pain in his stomach. He took a brief inventory of his injuries, cautiously moving his limbs. He could not lift his throbbing head, his knees and ribs were burning with pain after the beating he had taken, and a darting stab in his ribs indicated that he had probably cracked one, but it was nothing he had not suffered before.

“Arthur,” a familiar voice breathed into his ear. “Damn that accursed bully, Arseyvain, to all the hells. Arthur, I hope you skewer that lily-livered, conniving, treacherous usurper, chop him up and jump on the entrails. He’s a mealy-mouthed, weaselly, poisonous poltroon. Arthur, wake up. Arthur, for the sake of all the gods in the heavens, please wake up and yell at me.”

Merlin? What was he doing here? Had he been captured after all? And where was the old woman, Emma? Not that he missed her pungent odour, but he had become quite fond of the quirky old bat.

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice went on, warm and tender? Merlin had always been such a girl. “How dare that evil usurper Agravaine beat you!  But I’m not sorry about what you said to him, you noble prat, he deserved every word, but he wasn’t going to react well.” Merlin’s breath faltered – was he crying? Merlin was such a sentimental idiot, Arthur thought, fondly.

“Damn it all, Arthur, don’t you dare die, do you hear me?” Yes, he was definitely crying. For heaven’s sake, it was just a beating, Arthur had suffered worse in his time, Merlin was such a baby about injuries. At least, when it came to Arthur, anyway. About Merlin’s own injuries he kept a stubborn silence most of the time.

“It is all my fault, I am so sorry, I should have told you before, I didn’t know how, nothing matters without you, wake up!” Arthur realised that his head was cradled on something soft and warm; someone’s legs, perhaps. Soothing hands were stroking his forehead. “Arthur, my dearest love, ah, Gods, I wish I could turn back the clock, I have been such a fool, Arthur you have to wake up! Curse Agravaine, may he rot in all the hells.”

Then the penny dropped.

Emma, that foul-mouthed, lewd-minded, sharp-tongued old biddy, was no alewife. And suddenly all sorts of things made horrible sense.

No wonder she had no idea how to drive a wagon, no wonder she had such an encyclopaedic stock of bawdy tavern-songs in her repertoire. Emma _was_ Merlin, his infuriating, devious consort.

Arthur’s heart was pounding, his pulse ringing in his ears, bile rising in his throat. Emma… Emrys… he had been so stupid. Merlin was here, in his cell. Merlin had lied. Merlin had lied, and lied, and lied. And when he thought about the character of old Emma, her insubordination, her easy familiarity with him, the laughter they had shared together, he could kick himself for not realising earlier.

Arthur groaned, furious at his own stupidity and his partner’s perfidy.

“Arthur! You’re awake! Arthur, thank the gods!” said Merlin, hearing him, and Arthur felt gentle hands lift his head, and massage his brow. He wanted to jerk his head away, but it felt so soothing, and his head was sore, so he didn’t. Mentally, he chastised himself for cowardice. Physically, he leaned into the embrace, moaning softly.

“Merlin,” he said through swollen lips, his voice broken, and all the words he wanted to say wouldn’t come out, because his throat was dry, and his head was throbbing. Someone (Merlin) held his head and put a vessel containing stale water to Arthur’s lips. He gulped, gratefully, grabbing for the vessel.

“Easy now,” came Merlin’s voice again, snatching the vessel away, “not too much at once, you’ll be sick.”

Arthur was furious: at himself for being so stupid, for being as weak as a kitten when he wanted to rant, for being dependent on his lying, deceitful, manipulative consort; furious at Merlin for not trusting him.

“Merlin you idiot,” he croaked eventually, with venom, “You utter imbecile. What the hell are you doing here?” He swallowed, jaw working, gasping for breath.

"Hush, Arthur, here, have some food, if you can." 

A vessel of gruel was lifted to his lips. Although it was foul Arthur slurped at it, hungrily, dribbling a bit, his lips clumsy with swelling. Then he batted it away.

“Just when I thought I had got to the bottom of all your lies, here you are again," he spluttered. "You lied to me Merlin, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me who you are?” He pulled himself painfully out of Merlin’s grasp, sitting up and looking round to get his bearings, wincing as his head spun when he moved his head.

The cell next to his was silent; no doubt the assorted riff-raff from the tavern had been taken for judgment and either put into the stocks or flogged for their crimes. He felt a stab of pity for the ruffians; they had just been spending their wages and letting off steam. He hoped they had not suffered too much.

Then he focused his gaze on his companion.

Merlin looked terrible: vestiges of his disguise and the glamour that he must have pulled around himself lingered; fading bruises, bloodstains and scabs littered his pale face. He wore the tattered widow’s rags that he had put on to become Emma, but his complexion no longer held the warts that she bore. He had removed the revolting, matted grey wig; his black hair was tufted and greasy, curling about his prominent ears. His clear eyes glistened black in the distant, dim daylight that filtered through the high, barred dungeon window. He looked broken, and beautiful.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” he whispered, kneeling back on his heels, eyes brimming with tears.

This was the first time Arthur had knowingly seen his consort since discovering that he was the Amber Rose, that he was Emrys, the powerful magician that Uther feared. He had rehearsed this moment in his head; how he would confront Merlin, how he would demand answers from his deceitful lover, bring all his hurts and betrayals into the open and deal with them one by one.

In all these scenarios he had never once imagined being helpless after a savage beating, nor the way that Merlin’s ravaged appearance nearly stopped his heart with love and pity.

But Arthur hardened his treacherous, soft heart. Just when he thought Merlin had finally stopped lying to him, he had been with him all along, disguised as an old woman, letting Arthur think that he’d betrayed him, letting Arthur tie himself in agonising knots, letting Arthur think he was dying, toying with Arthur’s emotions. Arthur’s rage burned cold within him.

“Sorry,” he hissed. “Doesn’t begin to cover it. _Mer_ lin.” Merlin’s face, if anything, became more pale and his expression more agonised. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, and gathered his strength, such as it was.

 “You lied to me, Merlin,” Arthur growled, “You have been manipulating me for weeks, months even. You…” his voice shook, he was so angry, “I can’t even begin to tell you how distraught I was when I thought I had betrayed you, you knew all along didn’t you? You have played me for a fool, Merlin.”

 “Arthur,” he said brokenly, “all I do, all I have ever done, was what I thought was best for you and for Camelot, I swear.”

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes. For he was sure that the idiot was sincere, but there, in a nutshell, was the problem. Merlin thought he was in the right. 

“You treated me like a child, Merlin.” His head was throbbing, pain flooded his guts, and he hissed as he tried to stumble to his feet. The chains that had hobbled him lay on the floor, discarded; Merlin must have freed him. His head spun and he fell again to his knees, dizzy, cursing his weakness.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, catching him and helping him to the bench, “Arthur, wait. With your permission I can help to speed up your healing; I can use my magic. But only if you want me to.”

Arthur batted him away. “No! Don’t you dare enchant me! See, you are doing it again, you are daring to presume you know what is best for me!”

Merlin shook his head vigorously, eyes wide with alarm and hurt. “No, Arthur, that's not it at all! That’s not what I would do, Arthur! I would not use my magic to manipulate you or enchant you; only to heal you, and never if you refused permission.”

“I wouldn’t want you to change me, or what I feel.” said Arthur. “I am what I am.”

“I would only speed up what your body is already doing, sire,” Merlin said. Arthur considered this, leaning his head back against the damp stone wall of the cell. And then he shook his head, gingerly.

“I will bear the effects of this beating like a man,” he said, regarding Merlin soberly. “You will not touch me nor attempt any healing unless I request it.”

Merlin nodded respectfully. “So be it,” he said, stepping back.

The men were silent for a moment or two while Arthur closed his eyes against the pain, his breath coming fast. When he opened them again, he felt a little better. His strength was gradually returning, and without the need for magic.

“Merlin, you should have trusted me,” Arthur said, voice low and intent, his sense of betrayal acute, thinking things through. He wanted to pace round the cell, to aid thought. He rose, shakily to his feet, and walked a few steps, testing his strength.

“But then again I should have trusted you, as well," he admitted. "We have tangled ourselves in knots, Merlin. But it’s no use crying like a girl, pull yourself together. My sister’s life hangs in the balance.”

Merlin turned away from him, breath escaping in great judders, dashing his eyes with the backs of his hands, and Arthur almost gagged when he saw the mess that the whip had made of Merlin’s back; the matted, congealed mixture of blood, flesh and tattered rags. Arthur saw Merlin’s shoulders shaking for a few minutes, and sighed while his consort attempted to calm himself. When he had stilled, Arthur put out a careful hand to Merlin’s shoulder and turned him round. Merlin’s eyes were red-rimmed but clear.

“Arthur, it was better that no-one knew my identity when I was disguised as the alewife Emma,” said Merlin, eventually, in an uneven voice. “No-one except Aelfred knew that Emma was a fake. When you faced Uther and Agravaine, you could truthfully say you did not know where I was. Uther still doesn’t know where I am!” Merlin continued, his voice settling down, now. “My identity as the alewife is not compromised. And here we both are, just where we need to be: in the dungeons, with no guard, for Agravaine has dismissed you as a threat. He underestimates you still, Arthur. We can take advantage of that.”

Arthur started a little at that.

“The difficult thing, all along, was to get _into_ the dungeons without raising the alarm; without Morgana being moved away. With my magic, I can get us _out_ of the dungeons at any time. If Uther had known that I was with you, that we were coming to Camelot together, he would have moved her. But now, here we both are, within spitting distance of Morgana’s place of captivity. I can release us from this cell, and distract Morgana’s guards with my magic. You and I can release Morgana, and we can bring her to safety together.”

Arthur huffed. It did sound, he thought begrudgingly, as if Merlin had thought this through. He found himself grudgingly admiring the amount of sneakiness in the plan, and resenting it at the same time.

“Gwaine is waiting for us by the midden,” said Merlin, “with a vile-smelling piss-wagon, destined for the tannery. The three of us can hide within it; the guards will not search it too closely, we will be away from Camelot by nightfall.”

“And then?” said Arthur. 

“And then, Arthur, we will see about meeting your destiny.” Merlin’s face was serious, his eyes grave. “You don’t believe that I have faith in you, Arthur, but I tell you this: you are destined to be the greatest king that Albion has ever known, and I believe in you utterly.” Merlin was breathing deeply, his eyes fathomless, and he knelt before Arthur, bowing his head. “I swear on my mother’s life, and on all the gods, I will serve you or die in the attempt.”

Arthur thought about Niniane’s dream of the sword in the stone.

“I love you as I have always loved you; my body, soul and spirit are yours to command, Arthur. I have wronged you grievously with my mistrust, and I wish with all my heart that it was not so.” His head remained bowed and his bloodied hands dashed against his eyes.

“Get up Merlin,” Arthur said, and his voice was flinty, but his hands were gentle as he placed them under Merlin’s arms and lifted him back to his feet. Merlin dashed the tears from his eyes and his face suddenly lit up in one of his dazzling, heart-stopping grins as he pressed a kiss to his surprised prince’s cheek. Merlin's nose wrinkled.

“By all the gods, Arthur, you need a bath, you stink!” he said.

Arthur gasped at the effrontery of this statement, coming as it did on the heels of such a fervent declaration of loyalty, and barked a surprised laugh.

“You’re a fine one to talk!” he said. “When you were disguised as the alewife I thought something had died in your underclothes!” He almost clapped Merlin on the back, at that, but, remembering Merlin’s injuries, contented himself with a punch to the arm, and then grasped Merlin’s forearm, locking eyes. “So when are we going to execute this cunning plan of yours then?”

“No time like the present,” said Merlin, lips quirking up at the edges. Releasing himself from Arthur’s grip, he reached out a hand towards the lock and whispered a command in a strange language Arthur had never heard.

While Arthur watched he was astonished to see Merlin’s eyes glow an unearthly yellow, and the lock clicked open. Arthur shivered. It was the first time that Merlin had performed magic in front of him. He looked alien, and powerful; Arthur took an involuntary step backwards. Merlin regarded him sadly, his eyes once again a deep oceanic blue in the wan dungeon light.

He signalled to Arthur: “After you”.

“But I don’t know where to go,” admitted Arthur, frustrated.

Merlin grinned again, tears drying on his blood-stained cheeks. “I think I do,” he said. “I think Uther will be holding Morgana where the dragon was tethered. I know the way; I spent many months visiting the dragon there, after all.

“You visited the dragon? The one that burned Camelot? Is there anything that you have been honest with me about, Merlin?” Arthur said, exasperated. “I swear, you have more secrets than… than… Agravaine’s spy network.”

Merlin swallowed. “My love for you is as infinite as the sky, I swear, and I will forever remain true to my vows,” he said intently. “As for the rest, secrecy is a burden I would gladly lay down.” 

Arthur shook his head. Now was not the time to probe the layers of Merlin’s deceits; time enough for that when Morgana was free. He gestured to Merlin, and the warlock pushed open the cell door, which squeaked loudly, but there were no guards to hear. Just as Merlin said, Agravaine had underestimated his nephew. He would pay for that fatal mistake, Arthur vowed.

Putting aside their differences to get the job done, the two men broke out of their cell. Arthur couldn’t help thinking how good it was to have Merlin by his side for the quest. Just like old times, he thought ruefully.  


	12. Simply to stay home in bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys break out. Can they find Morgana and free her in time to save her from the pyre?

Merlin led Arthur down a black, unlit passageway, lighting their way with a magical, blue orb. Arthur recognised the orb from a quest he had undertaken, long ago, to retrieve the mortaeus flower. Another mystery put to rest, he thought, wondering just how many times Merlin had aided him with magic. He had mixed feelings about that; he would rather they had worked together in the open, than Merlin had aided him in secret. It must be odd, he supposed, for Merlin, to perform magic in the open like this. He wondered how much courage it must have taken the warlock to do so.

Merlin was turning to look at Arthur now, a deep furrow between his eyelids. He beckoned to Arthur, who shrugged off his sudden introspection. Now was not the time for brooding, now was the time to act.

As they rounded a corner Merlin extinguished the light; Arthur could now see a torch-lit glow, and could hear a murmur of voices and a click-clack; guardsmen playing dice to pass the time. The two men inched, stealthily, along the passageway towards the light.

Merlin put out a hand and his eyes glowed an unearthly gold. Arthur heard a far away clatter and a bang, then the sound of a sword being unsheathed, voices squabbling about what to do.

Over the years Merlin and Arthur had developed a sort of telepathy, a knowledge of what the other intended, born of the many desperate situations in which they had found themselves. They exchanged a silent look as Arthur pantomimed suggested instructions. Merlin grinned, and signalled the affirmative with his thumbs up.

As they peeped round the corner, Arthur could see two guards, swords drawn, rising from their dice game on an upturned barrel. They walked, slowly, away from Merlin and Arthur and towards the distant noise.

Even injured, and unarmed, with Merlin at his side Arthur fancied the odds.

Arthur crept up behind one guard, while Merlin crept up behind the other. Arthur signalled with his fingers: “3, 2, 1, go”.

On “go”, as one, he and Merlin each leapt upon one guard’s back. At the same time, they each put a hand over the guards’ mouths to stop them crying out. Merlin disarmed one with magic, while Arthur overpowered the other with brute force, ignoring his protesting muscles and the searing pain in his ribs as he twisted the guard's sword arm roughly behind his back. Merlin summoned rope from the supply on the shelf and between them they bound and gagged the two men, checking for daggers and other concealed weapons as they did so.

One man’s eyes widened as he recognised the prince and the warlock, and he started to thrash about, desperately trying to escape his bonds. Merlin silenced him with a wave of one hand and a whispered word. He slumped to the floor, out cold.

The other guard looked petrified; his eyes were round with the fear of sorcery and a tell-tale wet patch appeared on the front of his breeches.

“I have not harmed him,” Merlin assured the guardsman. “He is sleeping and will wake some hours hence, much refreshed. If you wish, I can make you sleep as well?”

The guard shook his head violently, the whites of his eyes showing.

“Very well,” said Merlin, grinning at him.

Arthur grabbed the man’s fallen sword with one hand and a lit torch with the other. “Have a nice evening, gentlemen,” he said. Now armed, and no longer dependent on Merlin’s werelight, the former lovers continued their progress at greater speed.

“This way,” panted Merlin, his frown more pronounced now, his face tense and pained. They clattered towards a heavy oak door, and thumped it hard. The door shook with a heavy thud, as if somebody had hurled themselves against the other side.

"This is the place where Uther held the dragon imprisoned," Merlin panted.

“Morgana,” yelled Arthur, “Morgana it’s me, Arthur, I am come to rescue you!”

There was a whimpering noise from the other side and then, with a fierce joy, Arthur recognised the quavering voice that followed, pitch rising steadily.

“Arthur? Is that really you? Arthur?”

It was Morgana. They had found her. But the door was securely fastened and Merlin’s spells did not seem to be able to spring the lock. In the end, frustrated, Merlin bade Arthur move away.

“Morgana,” he shouted. “Morgana, we’re going to break in, stand away from the door! I am not sure I can control this!”

As Arthur stood at a safe distance and watched, Merlin held up both hands and began a long incantation. As he spoke his rich voice rose, commanding and hoarse, filled with an ancient depth and terror. Arthur shivered, wondering, suddenly awed.

In that moment his love for Merlin, so badly dented by their lack of trust, by the knots in which they had entangled one another, returned in a great flood, visceral and overwhelming. His body thrilled to the sound of Merlin’s voice, his very bones singing with it, his knees weak as water. If you had asked him before he would have said that he loved Merlin with every fibre of his being, but this sensation that coursed through him had ten times the power of that love, and he gasped, filled with longing, starting forward involuntarily as if to gather Merlin up in his arms and cling to him. 

What deeds they could do together, if their alliance could remain firm, he thought. What a terrifying enemy Merlin could be if he chose to use his magic for ill purpose. But Merlin, that sentimental idiot, blessed or cursed with the power to move mountains, or empty the ocean, could no more use his magic for ill than a kitten. Arthur thought back to the devout vows Merlin had made at his feet and felt suddenly humbled by them. Merlin was his, body and soul, and his monumental power could shake the foundations of the earth.

When Merlin’s eyes flashed yellow there was a mighty bang and the castle trembled; Arthur fell to his knees, flinching, as the massive oak door flew apart, shards of ancient wood catapulted in all directions. Far away he could hear sounds of the alarm being raised; shouts and bells rang out around Camelot. Merlin dropped to the ground, insensible; Arthur cursed, and ran to the open doorway, desperately searching.

“Morgana,” he shouted, holding his flaming torch aloft, peering into the gloom down the dank stone stairs. Had Morgana been held without light? He shivered at the horror of such captivity for his beautiful sister, and vowed vengeance on his uncle for his inhumanity.

“Merlin,” he yelled at his consort, expecting him to follow.

“Morgana,” he yelled again, clattering down the steps, reckless now with worry, for he knew that the alarm had been raised, knew who Uther would check upon first. “Morgana, we must make haste and take you away from here! Morgana, where are you? Merlin?”

Out of the shadows a wraithlike figure emerged, and threw itself upon him.

“Arthur,” Morgana sobbed, “Thank all the gods it is you! Arthur, help me! For I am bound, and my magic is chained, I cannot get free.”

Arthur saw that she was held to the wall by a thin filament around both wrists and ankles; it did not look strong enough to hold a grown woman of Morgana’s strength and indomitable will, but her skin around it was blistered, blackening. His heart burned in pity and righteous anger, and he hacked at it with the stolen sword, breaking the chain into small pieces which fell to the floor and shrivelled as Morgana screamed in pain and relief.

After a moment, her shaking body stood, trembling, on the stair.

“Thank you Arthur,” she said, her face stern and brave; Arthur was never prouder of his sister than in that moment. “Thank you! You have released me from my bonds, and my magic is free now.” She looked no different to how she had been when Arthur had left Camelot.

“You have magic,” said Arthur: a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Did you not know?”

“I knew,” he said, “I did not know whether you use it for good, or for ill; I suppose that is up to you.”

She smiled at him, hesitantly, and together, they stumbled up the steps.

“Merlin?” shouted Arthur as they ascended the steps, propping up Morgana, although she seemed still to have some strength in her limbs; he supposed they must have given her food, and water. “Where is that incompetent idiot? Merlin!”

But then the truth became all too clear as they pushed through the heavy fragments and splinters of door to where a dark figure lay, senseless, among the ruins. Arthur faltered and knelt on the floor beside his friend, his lover, who lay, unconscious, one arm pinioned at an odd angle under a heavy beam, a prominent gash across his forehead, and a spreading pool of blood under his leg, where a large shard of oak had stabbed him deeply.

“Merlin?” Morgana whispered, beside him, her eyes adjusting to the unaccustomed light from the torch. “What sorcery is this?”

“No time to explain,” said Arthur, his eyes welling and his voice choked. “Merlin, for heaven’s sake, you have the preservation instincts of a beetle, you idiot.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered open and a ghost of a smile twitched his lips. Arthur touched Merlin’s cheekbone, cupping his face.

“Merlin,” he said in a cheerful voice, heart breaking inside as he watched his consort’s life ebbing away before his eyes, “Merlin, you soft-brained cabbage-head, come on, heal yourself so we can get out of here!”

“Arthur,” whispered  Merlin, “I cannot reach my magic; the wound is too deep and I am losing too much blood. You must flee, take Morgana to the midden, and meet Gwaine there. Leave me here.”

“No!” said Arthur. “You are not to die, now, Merlin, I forbid it.” His face was moist, and his chest heaved, he was not sure why. “No Merlin, I will not leave you here, you do not command me!”

“Wait, Arthur,” said Morgana in a soothing voice. She knelt on Merlin’s other side, and felt the wound in his leg. And then, to Arthur’s astonishment, Morgana’s eyes flashed orange.

The shard of wood lifted from Merlin’s leg and was tossed to one side; the heavy beam lifted from his arm as if it were a twig. Arthur wrenched Merlin from under it, and it thudded to the floor. Morgana lay her hands on Merlin and muttered a brief incantation. Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed and he sighed.

“I have some healing power,” Morgana said in reply to Arthur’s questioning look. “I hope I have done enough to stop the bleeding at least, but I am weak from my captivity, and cannot do more without losing too much strength myself.” She was panting from the exertion, but Arthur could hear the clamour of alarm bells above their heads. There was no time to lose if he was to get Morgana and Merlin out of here. Wincing from the pain in his ribs, feeling the fractured bones grinding in his side, he picked Merlin up and threw him over his shoulder. He didn’t weigh much, but his hip bones were scrawny and poked into Arthur’s painful side.

“Come, Morgana,” he said urgently. Resolving to feed Merlin up a bit more, Arthur led his sister back to a higher level of the dungeon, and down an underground tunnel which he knew led to the midden heap. The faint light of dusk filtered through an iron grille which barred their pathway out.

Letting Merlin down he pushed and tugged at the grille, but his wounds and the lack of food had weakened him. Sighing, he wondered what to do next, because he could hear shouts getting nearer, and he really didn’t want to kill any of Uther’s men, he may need them one day. Merlin’s face was pale and unmoving; Morgana was looking to him for guidance.

For a moment he felt despair, there was nothing left he could give, nothing. They would perish here. He turned to face the rapidly approaching steps, resolving not to go out without a fight.

But then, to his relief, a familiar voice hissed through the grille.

“You took your time, Princess,” said a dark figure, Arthur could just make him out in the gloaming.

“Insubordinate buffoon,” said Morgana in reply, but Arthur knew that the term Princess had not been intended for her.

“Well met, Gwaine,” he grinned at his friend, laughing in sheer delight. “Open up, we’ve got company.” He gestured down the filthy passageway where amid the distant shouts footsteps could now be heard.

Gwaine grinned back and with a heave he pulled the grille away. “Where’s Merlin?” he asked. Arthur grimaced and gestured with his head, still panting heavily from his earlier exertion. Gwaine stepped into the tunnel; Arthur winced when he heard Gwaine’s horrified exclamation.

“Gods, Merlin, what have you been doing?” he said, in a friendly voice which belied his concern. “Dressing up as a girl, fighting harpies, and engaging in battle with an unfriendly tree?”

But there was no reply; Merlin was still out cold. Together, Gwaine and Arthur dragged Merlin’s insensate body away from the tunnel towards the waiting piss-wagon, and exchanged a fearful glance as they gently manoeuvred him onto it. Neither of them was sure whether their friend was going to survive. Hurriedly Gwaine replaced the grille while Arthur gingerly levered himself up onto the wagon.

“What’s in the barrels?” asked Morgana, conversationally. “There’s a most insistent smell…”

“Best you don’t know,” said Gwaine, frankly. Morgana blenched, but having just spent four days in Uther’s deepest dungeon, she was none too fragrant or particular.

“I understand,” she said, nostrils flaring. “Just get us out of here, and let’s not mention it.”

Glancing back at the dark tunnel, Gwaine hid Merlin, Morgana, and Arthur under a foul-smelling blanket. Then with a low command he led the horse and cart away.

Two minutes later, they had disappeared into the dark evening, so that when the guards reached the grille at the end of the passageway they could see no sign of their passing, and turned back, thinking they must have gone another way. 


	13. With all your interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwaine shows Arthur how sneaking can be a powerful tool for getting things done without bloodshed.

When Arthur was denied sight, or the ability to move, the other senses became sharper, somehow. He could feel the coarse weft of the blanket that hid them, and his nostrils were once again being pummelled by an overpowering miasma redolent of latrines and midden-heaps. The clanging cacophony of the alarm rang in his ears, together with the foul imprecations of the guards who had stopped Gwaine and were questioning him about riding away after curfew.

“I don’t understand why it is so urgent to deliver piss to the tannery tonight,” one of the guards was saying. “Although I must admit that I’m tempted to just wave you through, for the sake of all our noses.”

Gwaine, Arthur thought, must be one of the most insanely courageous people he had ever met. At least when Merlin was interrogated by guards he could adopt a glamour that hid his real identity; but with Merlin still unconscious, Gwaine was just brazening it out.

“Listen, my old fellow,” he was saying. “I understand your problem, really I do. But this piss is gold standard, straight from the tavern. It’s probably almost pure beer. This sort of piss is not your everyday, chuck it down the privy and forget about it sort. They’ll pay me a premium for this. And it’s still warm! Do you have any idea how much more valuable it is when it’s still warm?”

The guard chuckled.

“Look, my friend, I admire your enterprising spirit,” he said, “but the alarm is ringing, and it’s more than my job’s worth to let you out of here without examining the cargo!”

Arthur breathed through his mouth—for two reasons: to mask the smell, and to make his breathing quieter. He had a reassuring hand on Morgana’s shoulder; Merlin lay unmoving under the dank cover.

“Of course,” said Gwaine. “Feel free to examine it, it’s top quality stuff, I promise. Probably best if you start at this end, this is the real quality in these barrels here.” There were rummaging sounds at the business end of the piss-wagon.

“What about down here,” another guard’s voice rang out within two feet of the blanket they were hiding under. Arthur could feel Morgana flinch under his hand. He gently squeezed her shoulder, willing her not to move.

“What? That’s just a heap of blankets I use to keep the piss warm. I’ve kept the barrels uncovered for now so you can look at ‘em, but I’ll be needing those blankets as it gets colder in the night. They're a little fragrant, the piss sometimes slops over a bit,” said Gwaine.

Arthur held his breath. The blanket moved a little, as if someone was patting it, and then the voice made a disgusted noise. “You’re right, not sure I want to touch those, they stink!” it said, moving away. “All right, my friend, you can go. Keep us in your thoughts if your dream comes true and your river of piss turns gold, all right?”

Gwaine laughed. “All right, see you, and thanks.” And suddenly, miraculously, the mules resumed their swaying gait, and the cart moved off at a slow pace down the rutted track which led out of Camelot towards the tanneries in a nearby village.

Gods, Gwaine was bold, almost reckless, but he pulled it off, thought Arthur, with admiration. If Arthur had been leading them out of Camelot it would certainly have meant a fight; people would have died, their success would depend on prowess in battle. But Gwaine had pulled off this daring rescue using an admirable combination of improvisation and barefaced cheek. Clearly there was more than one way to pluck a chicken, as Gaius would say.

Arthur almost laughed out loud with sheer delight as a germ of an idea struck him.

Here he was, skulking in a reeking wagon, stinking of piss; his deceitful warlock consort was gravely wounded; his father had condemned him to death. He probably should be feeling as low as he ever had done. But instead he was feeling more hopeful than he had done for months, and not just because he had his sister with him at last, although that helped.

Arthur would never be like Uther. Uther was a forbidding figure; alone on his throne, and only sycophants and yes-men were allowed to express an opinion in his presence. He had closed his ears and mind to difference. His subjects feared him. Arthur would not be like that, he vowed, and he suddenly knew what he would have to do to bring that about. His ears and mind would be open. He would surround himself with people whose strengths complemented his own.

The wagon carried on until the light had almost all gone, and then Gwaine sighed and tethered the mules. It would not be safe to carry on. Arthur and Morgana crawled out from under the blanket, and dismounted, after checking that Merlin was comfortable.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” said Gwaine. Gwaine and Arthur pulled the wagon into a patch of bracken, and Morgana helped them to cover it with branches, so that they were all but invisible from the lane, but could see it readily. They decided not to light a fire. They sat on a log and Gwaine passed round some stale bread, cheese and a flagon of weak ale which they shared, ignoring the filthiness of their fingers, savouring the basic meal in the black cocoon of the night.

“It’ll be cold tonight. Hope you don’t mind me joining you under that blanket, Princess,” said Gwaine eventually in a low voice.

“Well you can hardly make it smell worse, Gwaine.” Arthur rejoindered.  “But I won’t stay under there with you; I’ve rested enough. I’ll keep watch, tonight.”

“I don’t trust that filthy degenerate to keep his hands to himself,” said Morgana. It was dark, so Arthur must have imagined the flash in her eyes when she said that. He laughed at her sharp tone; his sister had not lost any of her fiery spirit in the dungeon, and Arthur felt a fierce protective pride at that.

“I’ll keep watch with you, Arthur,” she continued. Arthur could not see Gwaine roll his eyes, but knew that was what he was doing, when he let out a rueful chuckle.

“Suit yourself,” said Gwaine. “Let’s check on our magician, here, then, shall we?”, and, brushing crumbs from his hands, he leapt up onto the piss-wagon. Wincing from the pain in his side, Arthur clambered up after him.

Merlin’s face was pale in the half-moon light but he was breathing peacefully; he looked like he was sleeping; his forehead felt clammy, but not hot. Arthur took his pulse; it seemed fast, but even. He felt around the wound on Merlin’s leg; Morgana had stemmed the bleeding but it felt swollen and hot. Arthur hoped it had not become infected. There was not much more that they could do before daybreak.

Gwaine settled in next to Merlin. “I’ll keep an eye on him during the night,” he promised, settling down. Morgana and Arthur stepped down from the cart and returned to the log, which had a reasonable view of the road, although there was precious little light.

Morgana shuddered. “I hope I never have to crawl back under that revolting rag again,” she said, leaning against Arthur’s shoulder. Her eyes were glowing again, a faint gold in the darkness, as she reached out with her second sight, to find any hidden dangers in the forest.

The trees shivered and groaned above their heads, as if they were discussing the new arrivals. They were on a remote section of road, and Arthur knew they had to take care against magical creatures. But he was buoyed by Morgana’s presence.

At some point in the night he must have fallen asleep, for he was roused by a sudden change in Morgana’s position. Far away in the distance he could hear hooves, pounding, coming closer. Riders were coming along the road, at a frantic pace from what he could tell. He stood, hand on the hilt of the stolen sword, trusting the darkness to hide him from view, his eyes raking the road. He could just make out two horses and riders at first. It was too dark to see their livery until they were nearly upon the fugitives; they were pushing the horses hard and Arthur could just make out grim faces and heavy cloaks over chain mail as they drew near and then they were gone.

They were knights of Camelot, he was sure, and he wondered what grave news they bore at such speed in the middle of the night.

“Morgana,” he said at last, “I would like to know how you fared in the dungeon, but do not wish to stir up any unpleasant memories. Would you be able to talk about it? I understand if not.”

Morgana shuddered again, this time against the memories of her imprisonment, and her hand reached out for Arthur’s. 

“Morgana, did they mistreat you?” said Arthur grimly. “Tell me who, and I will have them punished.”

He could feel rather than see her as she shook her head. “No… not like that but… I was held in the dark,” she whispered. “For four days. I didn’t know if it was day or night.” She was shivering now with the cold and Arthur cursed the lack of warm clothes. He put a protective arm around his sister and hugged her. He could see her eyes glistening in the faint light from the half-moon. “I couldn’t reach my magic,” she continued, voice trembling, and he was not sure if it was driven by the emotion or the cold, “it was like not being able to breathe!”

Arthur nodded, his heart filled with pity, but also delight at her escape.

“It can’t be right, to imprison and kill those who have committed no crime, just because they have magic,” said Arthur. “Morgana, I will not let that injustice continue, I swear.”

“Thank you,” she said out loud. “You will be a true and just king, and not just of Camelot, you will be High King of all Albion, I have seen it. I have seen you lift the sword from the stone.”

Arthur was startled at that. He had thought that it was just the girl Niniane who had seen that vision, but it seemed as if there were others…

“Arthur, your next quest must be to find the sword in the stone, and lift it out before anyone else does, I beg you,” Morgana went on. “Just imagine if Agravaine…” and her voice faltered.

Arthur shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly, “this is not something for me to do on my own. I must prove my claim to the succession before witnesses. And whoever the seer Niniane refers to as the ‘big-stick man’ has to be there too, if it is to happen as foretold.” He sighed. “I don’t know who that might be, so I suppose my next quest might be to find him, first.”

He fell silent again, probing the dirt idly with a stick.

“The point is moot, at any rate,” he said, “for there are many in Albion with a greater claim on the High Kingship than me. Uther is king in Camelot, and I am still but a prince. One day, when I am king of Camelot, then I can try lifting this legendary sword from its resting place.”

And so the long night passed. Arthur took great comfort from his quiet conversation with his sister, in an unexpected moment of peace before facing the stark realities of the morning. But his thoughts kept drifting back to the injured sorcerer who lay unconscious, still, on the piss-wagon, with his friend by his side.

Merlin’s leg injury looked pretty bad, Arthur mused. He would need a prop to walk with, a crutch… he would need a big staff…

As Arthur pictured his consort wearing a cloak and carrying a massive staff, a slow smile crept across his face and he struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. Arthur wondered, sometimes, if he was born dense, or if he had trained himself to become that way by years of unthinkingly obeying his father’s orders.

Merlin. It was Merlin that he sought.

Merlin was ‘big stick man’.

He didn’t know it yet though, and Arthur felt a sudden surge of triumph at having worked something out before his consort, for once. But his triumph was short lived; it faded as he remembered the sight of Merlin’s silent, wan face and wondered if his consort would survive to meet his destiny. 


	14. It's A Chore To Chop A Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Morgana and Gwaine are stuck in the forest with two mules, ten barrels of prime-quality urine, and an unconscious sorcerer. Time to improvise.

As the dim light of the dawn began to bleach the sky, Gwaine leapt down from the piss-wagon to join them where they sat, shivering, on the log. Close by a blackbird began its sweet song; gradually other birds joined the refrain until the forest was alive with their competing strains. Arthur’s back side was numb where he had been seated on the damp, hard log; wincing, he stood, massaging life back into his bruised limbs. He jumped up and down a few times. It hurt, but he’d had worse.

“We can’t stay here, ladies,” said Gwaine, delving into a bag and handing round a water-flagon, some dried meat and some stale bread. Arthur snorted; Gwaine was as deferent as ever. “We need to work out how to get away.”

“What was the original plan?” said Arthur. Gwaine sighed.

The original plan had been devised before Arthur had been sucked into Agravaine’s plot. Gwaine and the piss-wagon had been in place some nights ago. They had updated the plan when the crown prince had followed Merlin to warn him of Agravaine’s treachery.

Merlin had hoped, at the Rising Sun, to convince Arthur that he was safe by singing outside, luring Agravaine and the guards out, and then disappearing. Then, once Arthur was safely out of the way, he would get himself arrested, disguised as the woman, so that he could then rescue Morgana and carry her to Caerleon on dragonback.

“But it all fell apart when you got arrested, had a fight and got yourself injured,” said Gwaine.

“Merlin must have known I would want to talk to my father,” said Arthur, yawning.

“Yes,” said Gwaine, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, “but no-one realised that Agravaine knew who the Amber Rose was, nor that Uther would blame you for your association with him. How did Agravaine find out about that by the way? Merlin must have got the shock of his life when you were thrown into the dungeon with him.”

Arthur’s mouth tasted bitter when he remembered that Uther had learned the identity of the Amber Rose from his own son’s lips.

Gwaine punched Arthur on the arm when the Crown Prince sighed heavily. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Princess,” he said with a blinding grin. “The best plans are always made up as you go along.” Whistling tunelessly he started polishing his sword with a whetstone. “So, let’s make one up.”

Morgana stood up. “I need to … erm…” she said, motioning to a nearby bush. Arthur and Gwaine nodded, and studiously turned their backs, pretending not to hear the small sounds that she made, but alert for any potential danger.

Arthur’s mother was dead, his uncle was a pustulent, traitorous weasel, his father, on the edge of madness, had rejected him. Morgana was the only close family he had left. Captivity must have been hard on her. When he thought of his brave, compassionate sister, trapped and alone in the dank, dark dungeon, anguish and rage gripped his heart, and he vowed vengeance upon his uncle.

When she came back, she stood before them with a determined expression, wide eyes black in the pale dawn light that filtered through the trees.

“I have a plan,” she said. “I am not sure it’s a very good one,”

“Let’s have it then,” said Arthur. “I’m open to ideas.”

“I think we need to wake Merlin up and get him to summon the dragon,” said Morgana.

“You can wake him up?” said Gwaine.

“Maybe,” she said. “Hartshorn and lavender may rouse him, if you have some, and I know a spell…”

“I’ll be surprised if he can smell anything after a night on that wagon,” said Arthur, pulling a face, “but maybe lavender will be a pleasant surprise. Let’s take a look at him.”

Gwaine and Arthur carefully manhandled Merlin down from the stinking cart; Arthur was stiff and his muscles cramped from the bruising; a sharp pain jabbed at his side and he gasped.

“Are you all right?” said Morgana, a worried hand on his shoulder. Arthur nodded, dumbly, eyes smarting with the pain in his rib as he and Gwaine laid Merlin gently on a pile of not-too-wet bracken. “Idiot,” she said fondly.

“He’s burning up,” said Gwaine. “He has a fever, and his clothes are damp. And he stinks. I’m going to find water, and firewood; we can get him cleaned up at least, and dry his clothes.”

Arthur looked compassionately down at his consort. Merlin was pale, and streaks of blood from lacerations covered his face. He and Morgana pulled out as many splinters as they could find but there were hundreds.

Of gravest concern was the wound in his thigh, which Morgana had attempted to heal. There was a deep, partly healed gouge in the muscle; the flesh around it was swollen, pus-covered, red and hot to the touch. Arthur’s guts twisted with anxiety. They needed to get him to Gaius, and fast. He did not look like he would last the day; even then, he may lose a leg.

Arthur’s eyes met Morgana’s above Merlin’s drawn, bloodstained face in a silent moment of mutual concern. Morgana shook her head, an anxious  furrow appearing between her eyes as she took in Arthur’s features. It was the first time they had really looked at each other in daylight since she had been rescued; Arthur wondered what she read in his face. Dread? Guilt and resentment towards his beloved consort? Pain from his many wounds? But it was more mundane than that.

“Your head, Arthur,” she whispered, her slender fingers reaching towards the bruises and abrasions on his face, lingering on the painful wound where Agravaine had kicked him so savagely.

Arthur smiled, a little bit lopsidedly because of the swelling. “It’ll get better eventually,” he said.

Her eyes dropped to the gold chain around his neck.

“What’s that?” she added curiously.

Arthur drew out the amber amulet Merlin had given him. He’d forgotten about it actually; it had lain, unnoticed, next to his heart for all these days. Morgana touched it and gasped.

“Arthur,” she said, “this feels… beautiful.” He frowned, puzzled. He wasn’t sure what she meant. It was smooth, yes: hard, and warm from his skin.

Morgana didn’t stop touching it as her green eyes stared at his. “Where did it come from?” she said.

“Merlin gave it to me.”

Her eyebrows drew together in thought.

“What did he say, when he gave it to you?”

Arthur thought back to that angry, bitter night. The words were seared on his brain. He felt his throat catch as he recalled them.

“It’s private,” he said at last. “Why do you want to know?”

“Arthur, I realise this may be painful, but I think this amulet might be important.”

Arthur huffed and didn’t meet her eyes when he spoke. “He said that he loved me and that he wanted me to have this.”

“His exact words, Arthur.” Gods, his sister was relentless. Arthur hated talking about this sort of thing, but he was no coward, so he held her gaze without flinching this time.

“He said, and I quote, ‘I want you to have this as a token of my love, of my absolute and unswerving regard for you. I beg you not to think badly of me,’” Arthur said.

“Is that everything?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, losing patience.

“All right. He also said ‘Everything that I am, everything that I have, everything that I ever will be, is always for you,’ and after that he told me that he thought I’d be a great king.” Arthur had a nasty lump in his throat, but he managed to finish the sentence without his voice quavering.

“I didn’t believe him at the time,” he confessed. “I have never thought myself worthy of such sentiments. I am good at fighting, but doubt my ability to make good decisions and bring the people with me.” He looked at Merlin and gently pushed a lock of black, damp hair away from his forehead with an involuntary hand.

“Your doubts are a sign of your worth. You need to understand your weaknesses to be a wise and just ruler,” said Morgana. She smiled and Arthur could see that her eyes were brimming with tears. Gods damn his sister and his consort for being sentimental idiots.

“Thank you Arthur,” she went on solemnly. “I realise it must be hard for you, admitting to having human feelings, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.” And they both laughed.

“Seriously,” she continued, once again stroking the amulet with her fingertips, “this amulet feels… special. I think it contains some essence of Merlin’s love, of his magic.”

“It’s enchanted?” said Arthur, aghast. He had been wearing the amulet without thought that it may be influencing him in some way. 

“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s almost like… Merlin’s essence and regard for you are distilled into this amulet. Arthur, it’s almost like the amulet loves you. It is precious. I cannot believe that it contains any harmful nature. It is as if… as if… as if it has been blessed…” Her voice trailed off as she continued to hold the amulet.

“Could it contain any healing power?” said Arthur, eyes narrowing.

“Perhaps, for Merlin, it could? I believe that this blessing came from him, and is a symbol of his bond with you. Perhaps, if you laid it upon him and called him, he would answer.” She smirked a little then. "Maybe he'll wake if he's kissed by his true love, a handsome Prince." 

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm not a girl, Morgana! And I refuse to take strategic advice from a fairy story!" he said. "Besides which, I'm willing to bet that none of the stories feature an impertinent, deceitful princess who calls their true love a prat!"

“Arthur!” She stamped her foot. "Stop being ridiculous. Your mouth has gone all pouty with worry. Fix this, you idiot."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “All right! What do I need to do and when can we get started?”

And so it was that when Gwaine reappeared, carrying a pile of firewood and two full waterskins, Morgana and Arthur were huddled together over Merlin’s chest. Arthur held the amulet in his fist over Merlin’s heart and spoke, softly.

“Merlin,” he said gently, other hand on Merlin’s hot forehead. Arthur’s felt his voice become quieter, almost distant; his hearing had become distorted so that his voice, and those of the others, sounded far away while he could hear and feel a thump, thump; Merlin’s steady heart beating under his fist. The blackbird was singing ever more raucously; its song filled Arthur’s heart with a curious joy.

“Merlin,” he called again, but this time he wasn’t sure whether he had actually spoken out loud. The amber rose seemed to swell in his hand; a feeling of peace and trust seemed to radiate from it.

Arthur closed his eyes and it seemed that he could see Merlin standing in front of him, as if in a dream, clean and whole and radiant, poised to walk away into the light. When Dream-Merlin smiled at him like the sun breaking free of cloud, the beauty of his face pierced Arthur's chest like a knife.

“Merlin, you idiot, come back to me,” he said, behind his closed eyelids, to Dream-Merlin. “Please, I love you and I miss you, you soft-hearted sap.”

“Arthur,” said Dream-Merlin turning to him, drawing him in and embracing him. “I love you with all my heart. Truly I could never leave you behind.” Arthur kissed him then, tenderly, on the lips, so that his lips and bones and skin seemed to melt away with the wonder of it, and he closed his dream-eyes. When he opened them again he was back in the forest; sunlight dappled through the trees, picking out Merlin’s face in gold and green; the blackbird was still singing ecstatically, and he was gazing upon a pair of eyes the colour of the ocean on a cloudless day. The look of tender adoration in those eyes nearly stopped Arthur's heart. 

Merlin was awake. 


	15. They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There: Agravaine Seeks Him Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are being hunted; it is time for Merlin to summon a dragon. Can they get away before they are overwhelmed?

Merlin can’t have been eating properly for months. Arthur didn’t know how he had failed to notice it. Merlin had always been scrawny and angular, but now his rib-bones and joints jutted out and when Arthur looked closely he fancied he could see Merlin’s skull beneath his skin. He shuddered at the thought, and swore by all the fires in all the hells that he would feed his scrawny consort up when this was all over. For now he contented himself on insisting that Merlin washed and ate a meagre breakfast of bread, dried meat and ale before he summoned the dragon. 

As Merlin chewed and swallowed tiny morsels, Arthur’s thoughts turned once again to the girl Niniane’s vision of the sword in the stone. From Morgana’s words it would seem that Niniane was not the only seer who had experienced this vision. Arthur wondered if Merlin could help to shed some light on the whereabouts of the mysterious sword. He resolved to talk to him about it as soon as they had time.

Gwaine, who had been checking the mules and wagon, returned to them at a full run.

“Riders,” he panted. “Riders with hounds. Maybe a score of them, approaching from Camelot. We have maybe ten minutes until they get here. We need to get you out of here, Princesses.”

“That pustulent carbuncle,” Merlin ranted, swallowing a final mouthful. “That weaselly buttock-boil, Agravaine, has sent Uther’s hunting dogs out after us. May his gangrenous testicles rot, the flea-infested, viper-tongued rat.”

Once again Arthur found himself a little shocked at the ripe and fruity language that Merlin used when he heard this news. He supposed that all those long days in the tavern, combined with years of studying medical texts with Gaius, must have rubbed off.

“We have no time to lose,” said Arthur. “Merlin, you must summon the dragon. How quickly will he get here?”

“It depends on his mood, and whether he is nearby,” said Merlin, frustration showing in his face.

“Summon him straight away. I will hold off the hounds until the dragon arrives,” commanded Arthur, running and retrieving from the cart the sword he had stolen in the dungeon.

“Aye, Sire,” said Merlin, struggling to his feet and immediately falling down again in a swoon. Arthur sighed and pushed Merlin's head between his knees.

“Merlin! This is no time to swoon, like a lovesick girl." His barb hid his concern. "Wake up now!" He drew a groggy Merlin more slowly to his feet until he stood unaided though gasping involuntarily with pain. "Morgana, Merlin; once the dragon is summoned, stand close to me and if you can aid me with magic in staving off the attack from the hounds, you have my permission to do so. Gwaine, leave now, and take the mules on to the next village. Leave the cart where it is. We will have no more need of it.”

“Aye, Sire!” said Gwaine, grinning as always. “Here!” and he pulled a bow and quiver of arrows where he had hidden them from view on the wagon. He handed them to Morgana, who exchanged a delighted smile with him. Morgana was a decent archer, she had practiced with Arthur in the forest when they were children.

Gwaine grasped Arthur by the hand, locking eyes in a silent mutual ‘good-luck’, and clapped Merlin hard on the back. Merlin winced from the wounds in his shoulders. Gwaine winked at Morgana and then was gone, leaping onto one mule’s bare back and leading the other by the reins.

“Kilgarrah will need space to alight,” Merlin said, limping as he led Arthur and Morgana into the forest. The undergrowth was dense with brambles; fronds of bracken were peeping through the soil. The going was slow as they pressed through thickets.

“Kilgarrah?” said Arthur, confused.

“The dragon,” Merlin explained.

Arthur could see Merlin’s eyes glowing faintly golden; he supposed he was searching for a suitable location for the dragon to land. When Merlin stumbled and hissed with the pain from his wounded leg, Arthur pulled Merlin’s arm around one shoulder, Morgana held him on the other side, and they continued together at a painfully slow pace.

Arthur could faintly hear hounds baying. They had limited time left before the hunt would be upon them.

Soon they found themselves in a high space in the forest. Merlin’s breath was laboured and his chest heaved; beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Arthur hoped that Gwaine would be all right; the hounds would overtake him on the road with the mules, first, and then when it was clear that their quarry had fled, they would come after the rest of them. He judged they had less than five minutes before they would have to turn and fight.

Merlin braced his sore back on Arthur and raised a hand to the heavens as he began to incant in an ancient, sonorous language that Arthur felt he should recognise.

“ _O drakon_ ,” he intoned. “ _O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes! Erkheo!_ ”

Arthur could feel his heart thudding in his chest in response to the commanding tones in Merlin’s chest; he had never heard Merlin speak this way, and he ached with the desire to know all his consort’s secrets.

When the incantation had finished Merlin shuddered and his knees buckled. Arthur held him and lowered him gently to the ground where he sat, wrapped in Arthur’s arms, Morgana’s hand to his forehead. Merlin’s unfocused eyes started to close; he looked like he would drift away again, never to return.

“Merlin!” Arthur choked, muttering a foul oath. He would not lose him again, he would not.

He kissed Merlin’s burning, sweaty forehead. With one hand he took the amulet from round his neck, gently placing the chain round Merlin’s, and tucking the jewel under the frayed widow’s garments Merlin still wore, so that it lay next to Merlin’s heart. He placed his hand on the amulet and closed his eyes, willing Merlin to stay with them, to hold on until the dragon could move him to safety.

And then he leaped to his feet, leaving Merlin and Morgana together, pulling his sword from his belt. The hounds were close, he could hear them growling and crashing through the trees. Men shouted and cursed, the undergrowth shivered and shook with their passage. They were nearly upon Arthur now;

Merlin’s eyes fluttered open at last, staring to the heavens, and Arthur looked up for a moment and nearly fell to the ground. For a black speck was getting larger in the cloudless sky; resolving into the shape of a tiny, distant dragon, and getting closer and closer.

As the first dog appeared, snarling, saliva dripping from its maw, and fastened its jaw around Arthur’s leg, the dragon alighted in the clearing. Arthur hacked at the dog, which backed off, whining, and then, pulling Merlin to his feet, retreated with Morgana at his side towards the dragon. Morgana had an arrow in her hand and had drawn the bow as she moved, gracefully as ever, through the bracken.

Another dog leaped into the clearing, growling at Morgana. Calmly she loosed her arrow and Arthur saw her eyes glow golden. The arrow burst into flame as it buried itself with deadly accuracy in the hound’s side. It yelped and fell still, whining piteously.

Three or more hounds raced towards them and stood around in a circle, keeping a wary distance from the dragon, hackles up, snarling and growling threateningly. Morgana pulled another arrow from the quiver and Arthur turned to the hounds, sword at the ready.

“Kilgarrah! Please help us,” Merlin whispered. “Kilgarrah!”

The dragon made a deep sound, half way between a growl and a purr, which vibrated through Arthur’s chest, making him shiver. The last time Arthur had seen a dragon, it was trying to burn down his home and all the people that he knew and cared for. So a degree of wariness was to be expected.

The dragon was dark, but its eyes, slitted like a lizard’s, impossibly large, glistened in the bright sun of the clearing. As it moved its skin creaked, like well-worn leather garments.

To Arthur’s everlasting shock it spoke to Merlin, and Arthur understood its words.

“You summon me again, young warlock, and I sense that your destiny accompanies you.” He nodded his great head towards Arthur, who watched, fascinated, as a steaming drop of saliva fell from his enormous fangs onto the forest floor with a faint hiss.

“Kilgarrah,” said Merlin. “I am wounded, and we are in grave danger.”

As he spoke two men appeared at the edge of the clearing. They stopped, alarmed by the presence of the dragon. One of them hurried away, presumably to alert his colleagues. The other raised a bow and aimed it at Arthur. When he loosed an arrow Merlin flicked it away, lazily, with his magic, and carried on talking to the dragon.

The man prepared to fire another arrow. Before he could do so, he looked down at his chest, surprised; an arrow protruded from it. He looked up as a spreading red patch appeared around it on his jerkin and fell gently to his knees. Arthur looked at Morgana, who stood holding the bow, trembling. She looked at him uncertainly as he mouthed his thanks. Arthur realised this was probably Morgana’s first kill.

The dragon made another rumbling noise, which sounded to Arthur’s surprised mind almost like a chuckle; its hot breath smelt of mingled burnt coke and rancid meat.

“Will you take us to Caerleon once more, please, old friend?” asked Merlin. “My companions and I are all sore and weary; we are under attack, and would be eternally grateful.”

The dragon then turned his huge eye on Arthur.

“Ah, young Pendragon,” he said. Arthur gulped under that burning gaze. “My deepest commiserations to you at this time.” Arthur was confused. What could the dragon mean? Commiserations for what? His mind started to work overtime.

“Your destiny is at hand,” the dragon rumbled on.

Another man had appeared at the edge of the clearing, and had bent over his fallen companion. Arthur could hear shouts in the forest; he estimated ten or twelve men were approaching, with more hounds. Soon they would be overwhelmed.

“Much though I love exchanging riddles with you Kilgarrah, please can we leave?” begged Merlin as Arthur attempted to help him up onto the dragon’s back, fending off another hound with his stolen sword. Morgana had levered herself up via the dragon’s rear haunch and Arthur swung himself up beside her, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs.

At last with a leap and a flap of his great wings Kilgarrah rose at last into the air, a tendril of smoke drifting out of both nostrils in warning to the hunting party, which he left far below. It was not a moment too soon: as they watched another nine or ten men broke through the undergrowth into the clearing and started loading bows ready to shoot arrows at the dragon. But he was already too high to reach.

Arthur allowed himself a moment of exhilaration. He embraced his sister and his consort and laughed out loud at the sheer wonder of flight.

But almost with his next breath, as his thoughts turned to the dragon’s words to him, he felt a knot of dread form in the pit of his stomach. As they climbed high above the greensward, the hunters reduced to tiny, angry motes like ants far below them, he ground his teeth and wondered again what Kilgarrah had meant.

Deepest commiserations for what? His destiny was at hand? What did the dragon mean? But for all Arthur’s questioning, the dragon remained silent and did not speak again as he flew.

Arthur thought about the fast messengers that had ridden past them in the night. Grief and a sense of urgency gripped him, for there could be only one person in Camelot whose death could merit both the commiserations of a dragon and the despatch of the fastest riders in the kingdom.

King Uther must be dead.

And with Arthur a fugitive, he would be very surprised if Agravaine had not named himself King of Camelot in his place. 


	16. Is He In Heaven? Is Hell Where He Goes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kilgarrah brings Arthur, Merlin and Morgana to Caerleon where Arthur hears grievous news.

 

Flying brought many wonders. As the dragon began his slow descent, circling towards Caerleon, Arthur could see tiny sparkles of reflected sunlight on the great gulf that lay between Camelot’s lands and Caerleon’s, where the great river joined the ocean. He could make out shining rivers, dense forest and tiny clearings where villages and towns had sprung up. More ominously, on the mountain tops he could see beacon fires lit.

Icy tendrils of grief crept around Arthur’s heart, choking it; he closed his eyes, already moist from the cold wind, as if he could squeeze the tears back into them. There could be no more doubt about the meaning of the dragon’s words. Surely the beacon fires could signify only one thing: Arthur’s father was dead. He willed the dragon on. He desperately needed more news.

As he flew, he made a silent vow to his fallen father. Agravaine would not lead Camelot.

Finally Annis’s great fortress hove into view. He estimated that the journey, which had taken two perilous days for Arthur and Lancelot on land, had passed in less than three hours. They would reach Caerleon just in time for the mid-day meal. They may even arrive in advance of the messengers bearing the news of the king’s passing.

The dragon turned suddenly, and Merlin started to slither from Arthur’s numb fingers. Desperate, he fumbled and grasped a knobbly protruberance on the dragon’s side with one hand. Straining against the pain in his rib, Arthur let go of Merlin for one split-second to renew his grasp. His hand met a bundle of rags, which he clung to, heart pounding. “Kilgarrah!” he cried. Merlin was dangling, now, Arthur only held him by his clothes, but the dragon did not or could not hear. Morgana was screaming instructions, but with the sound of the wind he could not make out her words. He heaved with all his strength at the rag-clad figure of his consort, finally dragging his emaciated frame back to a more balanced position. Arthur almost sobbed at the relief.

Wincing at the pain in his side, he realised that the sword he had stolen from the guard at Camelot had fallen during the panic, tumbling into the great forest beneath. The loss of the stolen sword seemed to symbolise how far he had fallen: the loss of his kingdom, of his father, of his pride. His mouth set into a grim line.

Although the dragon radiated heat, steaming in the cold spring air high above the fields, Arthur and his companions were shivering by the time the dragon settled on a field outside Caerleon’s walls. A doleful bell tolled far away on the hill. People dressed in mourning swarmed towards them; As they neared, running, and Arthur carefully helped Morgana and Merlin to the ground, Arthur could just about work out that Sir Leon and Sir Percival led them, and was happy to see that they were accompanied by a limping Lancelot, who was leaning on Gwen.

Arthur’s legs finally crumpled and he sank to the floor, exhausted, next to the prostrate figure of Merlin, who lay senseless on the damp sward. Gwen and Lancelot came to Morgana; Percival and Elyan lifted Merlin; Leon gripped Arthur’s arm. Arthur breathed out, allowing himself a moment’s relief to count their blessings as the wily old dragon flapped into the air and left without another word. “Get us to Gaius,” he breathed, still shivering.

~#~

“Sire,” Leon began quietly. They were in Gaius’s lodgings, eating a simple meal; the old physician was fussing over his nephew’s extensive injuries while Arthur looked on. Merlin lay unconscious on a pallet; he looked gaunt and feverish; livid whip-marks and lacerations criss-crossed his pale flesh. As Gaius probed the swollen, angry-looking wound in Merlin’s thigh, Merlin cried out, a high-pitched, unearthly sound that made Arthur’s guts lurch with worry.

Arthur willed himself to continue his muttered conversation with Leon.

“Sire, we hear grave news from Camelot.” Leon was intent, eyes on Arthur’s. Arthur sighed, dreading what was coming. Leon always ended up being the one bearing bad news. He delivered it with the perfect balance of tact and directness. “The beacon fires have been lit all across Albion. Sire, I… I am sorry to bring you this news, but I fear that when the messengers get here you must brace yourself for the worst.” Leon’s face was wreathed in concern. “I fear that your father is dead, sire.  Rumours abound about the manner of the King’s passing, but they are just conjecture at this point. We await more reliable information.”

Arthur nodded, and willed his voice to remain steady as he replied. “Alas, I fear you are right, Leon, and  I fear that Agravaine plans to put himself on the throne of Camelot. If so then we must act swiftly to depose him. Camelot’s people have suffered enough. I am the crown prince and rightful heir.” Arthur’s voice shook, despite himself, with the intensity of his emotion. “The time has come for me to claim my birthright.”

“Aye, Sire,” said Leon calmly. Arthur had never been more grateful for Leon’s calm strength and unwavering loyalty. Arthur nodded, not yet willing or able to articulate the plan that was forming in his head. 

Gaius was washing his hands now, after having examined his protégé. “I have given Merlin a tincture for the pain, Sire, and some gruel to aid his strength, which was at a low ebb," he said, gravely. "It will also help him to sleep. I will stay with him, Arthur. His wound is deep, but Morgana’s healing spell still aids it and appears to have staved off the worst of the creeping infection.”

“Will he recover?” said Arthur.

“I hope so, Sire; let him sleep for now. And now, let me see that rib.”

“There is no need; it is healing,” said Arthur, wriggling his shoulders and trying not to gasp at the sudden stabbing pain.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” and there was no gainsaying that stern set of Gaius’s eyebrows. Arthur sighed resignedly, and shucked off his leather jerkin so that Gaius could prod and poke at his side.

“Leon, Gaius,” he said, frowning to suppress the pain of the examination, “tell me – have you heard rumour of a sword in a stone?” He let out a sudden, unprincely yelp as Gaius found a brutally-kicked spot. Gaius tutted and fetched some salve.

 “Sire,” said Gaius as he returned with the salve, lifting a quizzical eyebrow as he applied it to the wound, “Rumours abound all through Caerleon about this sword. Seers throughout the kingdom have spoken of visions, that the sword will only be lifted by the rightful King of all Albion. But none knows where it is or how to find it. Its origins are shrouded in mystery.”

Arthur nodded, a humourless smile playing across his features, and then hissed when Gaius kneaded another particularly sore spot.

~#~

The bells were still clanging, a doleful noise, when Arthur and Leon strode into Queen Annis’s council chambers. Arthur was summoned; the Queen required his presence.

Arthur had washed and dressed in formal state clothes for the occasion. Queen Annis sat in the council chambers, with a small number of trusted advisers. Their faces were solemn; Queen Annis had a black gown on as a token of mourning.

Arthur knelt before the Queen, bowing his head.

“Arise, Prince Arthur,” she said, kindly. “Come, join us. We have much to discuss.”

Arthur nodded.

“Arthur, I fear we have bad news for you. A messenger has arrived from Camelot in the last hour; he confirms that your father is slain, at Agravaine’s hand, and that Agravaine has stated his claim to the throne.”

It was as if Agravaine had sliced Arthur’s own guts. He had suspected such foul deeds, but nevertheless the confirmation made his blood rise. He shivered, biting back his rage and the bitter taste of treachery.

“Please accept our humblest commiserations at your loss,” she continued. The room fell silent for a moment or two and Arthur bowed his head, fighting back tears. Leon’s warm hand on one shoulder gave him comfort. There was no shame in mourning a father, he told himself, and gritting his teeth he met Annis’s eyes.

“I thank you for your kind words, Queen Annis,” he stated, firmly.

“And tell me, how fares your consort?” she continued.

“He sleeps, Your Majesty. He sustained grave injuries while aiding in Morgana’s rescue. Gaius assures me that he will recover in the fullness of time,” said Arthur. “Your Majesty, I will avenge this foul deed,” he continued. “When my consort is recovered, we will pay a visit to Agravaine and depose the usurper. Camelot shall be freed from Agravaine’s greedy machinations.”

Queen Annis nodded, her face approving, and the discussion turned to wider matters, of Saxon incursions in the ast, and of the political problems in Nemeth and Essetir.

~#~

When Arthur had first met Merlin, he had been helplessly drawn by the irrepressible mischief in Merlin’s eyes, by Merlin’s youthful optimism and positive attitude. Merlin had been brimful of smiles and cheeky comments; his enthusiasm was as infectious as his ready grin. Merlin had bounced into Arthur’s life like a baby gazelle, clumsy in word and deed, unused to court politics and unaware of the nuances of behaviour expected from someone of his station in life.

Later, he had gazed upon his prince with unbridled adoration. His love had bathed Arthur in its radiance. Arthur had been hopelessly ensnared by the worshipful intensity of those shining eyes. He had been comfortable in Merlin’s company like no-one he had ever known before; it had brought such rare joy and laughter to his life. Little wonder that the prince had been smitten.

Merlin had upbraided Arthur for his moments of pettiness, and stood awestruck at Arthur’s moments of greatness. He had been a mirror for Arthur, reflecting back his glory; when Arthur thought about it, he realised that he had thought so little about Merlin himself, had known him so poorly, had not sought to find out about him, to look behind the mirror at the man, but was instead content to take as his due the devotion Merlin gave him so unstintingly.

How bitterly he regretted this omission when he looked now at his consort’s gaunt, strained face. How desperately he now felt, unbidden, love and need welling in his heart.

Pity wrenched at Arthur as a pair of servants gently manoeuvred Merlin’s thin frame onto the bed in Gaius’s chambers, and a stab of guilt followed when one of them inadvertently pressed his hand to Merlin’s injured leg, making Merlin let out an involuntary yelp.

“Your talents as a warlock don’t stretch to healing yourself, then?” Arthur said, trying for a light comment even as his aching heart threatened to choke him. A fleeting ghost of former smiles flew across Merlin’s cracked lips for a moment. Arthur wanted to call it back and freeze it there. All too soon the faint smile was replaced by a worried frown.

Gaius had carefully removed Merlin’s soiled clothing; a bath had washed away the stink. He was now clad in a simple, loose shift to allow his back and leg to heal. In truth, the other injuries were improving; Merlin did seem to heal more quickly than Arthur would expect given the gravity of his condition on arrival in Caerleon.

 “Arthur,” said Merlin, swallowing down a mouthful of the stew one of the servants was encouraging him to eat. “I… your father… your Uncle, gods Arthur, I’m so sorry…”

“Just eat, Merlin, you’re as weak as a kitten. I can’t talk to you when you look like a puff of wind will blow you away.” Arthur stood, restlessly seeking something to look at other than Merlin’s ravaged face, Failing to find anything he sat back on the edge of the bed watching Merlin eat, and sighed. “You should not apologise for that. You did try to warn me that my uncle was planning something; you were not to know the depths to which he would sink to fuel his ambitions.” For all his talents, the Amber Rose could not save Arthur’s father from himself, much though he would have liked to try.

When Merlin had taken as much food as he could, which didn’t amount to enough, in Arthur’s opinion, and sat up on the bed, propped by soft pillows, Arthur motioned to the servants to leave. He drew the covers over Merlin and gently pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Merlin seemed to lean involuntarily into the touch and Arthur let himself cup Merlin’s cheek for a moment before pulling his hand away.

“Get some rest, Merlin,” he said. “I need you fully recovered before the end of the week.”

“Why so?” croaked Merlin, eyelids already drooping.

Arthur sighed. “Because, you great oaf, I need you to get me back to Camelot in time for my father’s funeral, so that we can prevent the travesty of Agravaine’s coronation.”

Merlin’s eyes blinked open, and for a moment Arthur saw in them the shining devotion he hadn’t seen for many months, something he had not dared to hope for,. He almost gasped at the intensity of that gaze. Smiling despite himself as he stood and turned to leave he could still feel Merlin’s eyes on his back, and felt his cold heart thaw.

~#~

Late that night, although he had not slept properly for days, and he was still in pain from the wounds in his rib and head, Arthur made his way, alone, on foot, to a dark, ruined chapel he knew of in the woods. He bore only a small knapsack containing some bare essentials.

He knelt, and with flint and steel he lit a candle for his father in this dark, cold stone place. It had been a sacred place of the old religion, and even as old made way for new, there was an ancient atmosphere about it, an air of listening, of attentiveness, of curiosity. He could almost hear the ivy growing as it twisted and buried the gritty sandstone blocks that men had hewed to make it; the ivy was claiming the stones, calling them back into the earth.

He scattered wine, honey, bread and nuts to the bare ground. Pricking his finger with a dagger, he let a few drops of his blood join the offering.

“Father,” he said out loud. Tears pricked his eyes then, and fell, salt mingling with the soil.

His candle guttered and blew out. His heart beat faster.

Although Arthur was alone he felt, by the prickling of his skin, like he was being watched. Although he was silent, he could feel rapt attention being paid to his unspoken words. Although he had fasted, he could taste the food he had brought. His mind was as open as the bright night sky, where the stars blazed, brilliant and impossibly distant, through the ruined roof. It was a clear night; a shaft of light from the gibbous moon entered through a derelict window, casting a pool of silver onto the floor in front of him. In the forest around him night creatures rustled and leaves whispered. 

“Father,” he said again at length. The anguish in his heart settled a little in the timeless peace of that place as he knelt in lonely vigil through the night.

He must have fallen into a trance at some point, because his father stood before him, ethereal and stern faced. “Arthur,” said this vision quietly. “My son.” And the figure beckoned, drew Arthur to his feet from his cold, aching knees, towards the sanctuary at the chapel’s heart, where he pointed to a great slab of granite, wreathed in ivy. Arthur looked up, but the figure had vanished. Not knowing quite why, Arthur pulled at the ivy, uncovering the rock.

There, as if hewn from the granite, lay a great sword. Its leather-gripped hilt protruded incongruously from the rock. As if in a dream, Arthur tugged at the sword and it came away easily in his hand. Its leather grip was warm to the touch; it felt almost alive.

“Arthur,” another voice whispered then, and this time it sounded like…

“Merlin?” he said, head swivelling. But he could see no-one in the dark, and knew he was still alone.

When the dawn came, wispy tendrils of mist clinging to the lichen-clad birch trees, Arthur awoke, shivering, to raucous birdsong. A heavy layer of dew clung to his clothes. He found himself lying in front of a great ivy-clad rock; in his hand was a heavy broadsword, shining gold and silver in the dawn sunshine. It was sharp and free of rust. Laughing a little with the wonder of it, he sheathed and unsheathed it in the rock a few times. It came out unscratched and unblemished every time.

He gazed at it then, reading the runes inscribed along it, feeling its heft and its balance. It pricked his finger, and he let a drop of blood fall from it to the forest floor. He felt something click into place in his head, something that had been out of alignment for longer than he could remember; something indecisive and confused was banished, and he felt stern and resolute.

He returned to the stone. It seemed both ancient and new; the ivy must have been there for years, and yet the inscription upon it was not faded or worn.

“Whomsoever lifteth this sword from the stone shall be the rightful born King of all Albion” it stated.

Far away the bell chimed for the start of the new day. 


	17. That Damned Elusive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and his trusted advisers discuss how to depose Agravaine; meanwhile, can Arthur get to the bottom of all Merlin's secrets?

Gaius informed Arthur that Merlin would require at least six weeks to recover from the wound to his leg, if the muscle were to knit properly. But after two days, when Gwaine finally appeared clutching two mules, with news of Uther’s impending funeral, Arthur’s patience ran out. He sought Merlin out in Gaius’s chambers, where he sat up in bed, still pale but alert, and an empty gruel bowl sat by his side.

“Soooo…” Arthur drawled. Merlin gulped, closing his eyes. “About those lies,” said Arthur.

“I am sorry,” said Merlin, eyes flicking open.

“So you have said,” said Arthur. “And yet, you still appear to be hiding things from me.”

Merlin was silent for a moment. “Arthur, I…”

Arthur held up a hand. “Not two days ago I had a broken rib, and now I find it is completely healed. Tell me Merlin, how is that possible?”

“I can explain,” Merlin began, moistening his cracked lips.

Arthur growled at him. “You ridiculous, bumbling idiot,” he began, voice starting to rise. “You utterly infuriating, lying, deceitful buffoon. Do you suffer from some sort of pathological lying disease? I explicitly ordered you not to heal me with your magic.” 

“NO, wait, Arthur, it’s not like that… it’s just, my magic, sometimes I can’t control it, and when I…I… care deeply for someone, it just helps things along without me telling it to,” said Merlin, moistening his lip and looking utterly wretched. Arthur shook his head. It was unbelievable, and yet just so… so… _Merlin,_ that he couldn’t help feeling that it was probably true. He ran his hand through his hair with an exasperated sound.

“Merlin, we have woven ourselves into knots, you and I” Arthur said and he waved his hand as if indicating the nebulous strands of hurt and betrayal that separated them, as if they were tangible threads that could be untangled and straightened.

“I admit that I was cold and arrogant, slow to listen; I allowed myself to be manipulated by my uncle into betraying you, or so I thought,” said Arthur, clamping the temper rising in his gorge, “But you… Merlin, you hid your true nature from me for years, so that I don’t even know who you are any more. And just when I think you have stopped lying, I find that you are still hiding things from me. Well it has to stop, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin breathed.

Arthur, trying to regain his composure as he fought down the un-royal lump in his throat, folded his arms and looked out of the window, resting his head on the cold stone. A dog-rose climbed past the window; butterflies and bees hummed and bobbed around its pale pink flowers, giddy with its delicate scent. “I’m sorry.” Merlin said at last. He swallowed and shook his head, eyes shining, chest heaving, and he didn’t speak for a long time. The air between them was thick with regret and the perfume of the dog-roses.

“You came for me,” he said, finally, shakily, meeting Arthur’s eyes, all deception stripped away. “You came for me. You called me back, and gave me hope. I… I was dying, I think. Thank you.”

 “No more sneaking around behind my back, Merlin.” Arthur, holding himself aloof despite his warring emotions, arms still wrapped round himself, pinioned his consort with a stern glare. “Any sneaking around will be done strictly on my orders from now on.”

Merlin gulped and nodded. “I have to confess, sire, that there are many things that I have hidden from you over the years,” said Merlin, all pretenses stripped away, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “I promise I will reveal them all to you.” His eyes were a startling blue against his pale skin; he looked fragile, vulnerable. Arthur fought the urge to enfold him in his arms, to press their lips together, to murmur heartfelt endearments into the pale skin of Merlin’s neck.

“I will keep you to that vow,” said Arthur, holding Merlin’s gaze. “And there is another one I wish you to make—you and the others whom I have chosen. Can you walk?”

Merlin nodded. With the movement a tear slid from his eye down his cheek. Arthur leaned forward and brushed it away with a calloused thumb, then pressed a gentle kiss to Merlin’s forehead, smiling to himself when he heard the sudden catch in Merlin’s breathing, when Merlin’s hand rose unbidden to finger the place where Arthur’s lips had touched him.

“I bid you to join us for our discussion. I would have your counsel. Your honest counsel, Merlin. We meet at noon to discuss our plans. Gaius will come with you.”

Arthur drew away then, willing his legs to move away. “Until then, Merlin,” he said.  

~#~

They sat, huddled round a small, round table, in a cold, bare room in a little used part of the castle: Arthur and his inner circle. Arthur’s father had surrounded himself with people who agreed with him to his face and plotted behind his back; Arthur intended to do the reverse.

“Thank you for coming,” he began, looking round the dusty room at his closest advisers. This gathering was the fruit of his revelation on the piss-wagon, when he was fleeing from his uncle and his father. “I have called each of you here because I value your opinions and your differences. I wish you to work with me: today, to formulate and carry out a plan to regain the throne of Camelot from the usurper Agravaine; and in the future, to sit beside me as I take my rightful place.

“My father first showed me the ruined chapel here at Caerleon, long ago,” he added. “I remember him telling me, as a child, to remember the value of stillness and calm. It is there that I found this sword.”

He drew the sword he had found in the stone and related the tale of its finding. Every eye was upon him, united in their rapt silence. Arthur stood in a pool of sunlight and held the sword before him. Dazzling golden rays, streaming through the window, illuminated him; as they played on the sword’s steel shaft, shards of shattered light dappled the room.

“I am Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, and I will avenge my father’s murder, and validate my claim to the throne by trial of arms,” said Arthur, holding the sword aloft, his voice bold and steady.  “I believe that in finding and lifting this sword from the stone I prove my strength and my right.” He lifted the sword above his head, raising his voice to a shout as he asked “Are you with me?”

“Aye sire,” cried every man and woman in the room. Arthur smiled, laying the sword down.

“I will have your solemn vow, every one of you,” he said. “Upon the sword you shall swear an oath to speak your mind when we are in council, and to keep silent about the proceedings of the council. If you forsake the vow, your life is forfeit. Will you swear it?”

“We will, sire!” said every pair of lips in the room.

“When we are in council, I will hand out a gauntlet; apart from me, only the person holding the gauntlet may speak. Have no doubt,” he said, striding around the table as he spoke, “that when you speak in council I will hear and ponder your words and judge them fairly. But the final decisions rest with me. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sire,” came the reply.

Arthur turned to his oldest adviser. “Gaius,” he began. “You are a man of science, of rationality and you have proven your worth and your loyalty to Camelot so many times over the years that I fear it is beyond me to enumerate them. I value your wisdom and wish you to speak freely when we are seated together in council. You will not be punished if you contradict me.”

He bade Gaius to kneel, and held the sword to his shoulders as he named him, and as Gaius vowed his loyalty and honesty to Arthur as his prince and future king, to those who sat round the table, and to the throne of Camelot. And then, because he was Gaius, and in deference to his age, Arthur pulled his old friend gently to his feet.

And so Arthur spoke to each individual in turn, hearing their oath, holding their eyes: brave Elyan, kind Gwen and bold Gwaine; honourable Lancelot, strong Percival and fearless Morgana; faithful, diplomatic Leon. And Merlin of course, that mess of contradictions who held Arthur’s heart: Merlin, who had been indispensable before their estrangement; Merlin, whose fragile-looking frame held a rare power and strength; Merlin, who was Arthur’s secret weapon and Arthur’s Achilles heel; Merlin, whose brilliant eyes now held an awestruck expression as he looked upon Arthur, the man who was to become the king.

Arthur produced a gauntlet and placed it in front of him on the table.

“Let us begin,” he said grimly, pushing the gauntlet towards Merlin. “Merlin, the time has come to reveal yourself.”

Merlin’s eyes widened as they met Arthur’s; his Adam’s apple bobbed twice and he looked round the room, as if searching for an escape route.

“Right,” said Merlin, wiping his hands on his breeches. “Right,” he said again. He cleared his throat, harrumphing a bit. “This may come as a surprise to some of you,” he started, “I mean, some of you already know about it, and some of you might have guessed, and what with the rumours and everything, others…”

“Get on with it Merlin,” said Arthur “We haven’t got all day.” Merlin scowled; the pointed look that he then flashed at Arthur made his lips twitch with nostalgia.  

“All right, prat,” responded Merlin, hotly, and Arthur grinned in triumph; Merlin had never been able resist Arthur’s goading.

“I have magic,” said Merlin baldly, ignoring the shocked gasps that arose at his words. “I am a sorcerer. The druids call me Emrys; my Latin name is Ambrosius, and the ordinary folk call me Amber Rose. So now you know.” He nodded. “Oh yes, and my father was the dragonlord Balinor. That too. So I am as well. A dragonlord, that is.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Merlin’s erudition, so inventive when insulting someone, escaped him when telling the truth about himself, it seemed.

Leon looked unconvinced. “You! A sorcerer! Amber Rose? Forgive me, Merlin, if I still find that hard to believe.”

“Merlin, please give us a demonstration so that your words are proven beyond doubt,” said Arthur.

Propping himself on his staff, Merlin rose painfully to his feet and began an incantation, focusing on his open palm. A ball of light shimmered there, resolving gradually into a simulacrum of a rose, just open. The rose was sunset-coloured; peach, suffused with tones of pink and crimson.

“Behold, the amber rose,” said Merlin softly, his eyes swirling with gold. And gradually the simulacrum grew denser and denser until at last he held a real rose. One perfect dewdrop nestled in its petals, refracting the sunlight that reflected from Arthur’s still-drawn sword, like a diamond.

He brought it to Gwen, whose face held a worried frown, and knelt gingerly before her, proffering it. She took it, her eyes softening, and sniffed its delicate fragrance. As Arthur helped Merlin back to his feet she smiled delightedly, placing the bloom in her hair. The reaction in the room was mixed. Elyan and Percival drew away from Merlin, flinching as if endangered; Leon subtly positioned himself between Merlin and Arthur as if protecting his Prince. Gwaine, Lancelot, Gaius and Morgana seemed unmoved.

“Thank you Merlin,” said Arthur. “Ladies and gentlemen. There are some among you who have already shown that you can be discreet about such matters,” and suddenly Gwaine, Lancelot and Gaius would not meet his eyes, “for the rest of you, I would appreciate it if this information does not leave the room.” Nods met his stern glare, and if there were still some apprehensive glances towards his consort, Arthur decided not to draw attention to the fact.

Merlin still had the gauntlet, then; he outlined his idea about how Arthur could approach his bid for the throne and soon there was a lively discussion of the subject. Arthur sat back and steered the discussion with minute adjustments until a decision was reached, collectively. He was content.

It was time to act.

Drawing to his feet, he called an end to the council. They would all leave in the morning, as a formal group, to attend King Uther's funeral. But first, they would go to the ruined chapel, and Arthur would to show the council the place where he had drawn the sword from the stone, and repeat the feat in front of witnesses. Most of them would walk there that afternoon; Merlin and Arthur would go on dragonback.

 ~#~

Arthur had never intended to fall asleep while they waited, sheltered by Kilgarrah’s great bulk, in the clearing next to the ruined chapel, but he was tired, and Kilgarrah’s leathery belly was warm. When Arthur awoke, blinking in the dazzling sunlight, he couldn’t feel his hand; Merlin’s head was a dead weight on his shoulder. Merlin lay on his side, to avoid reopening the healing wound in his leg; said leg was draped across Arthur like a bony blanket, together with a gangly arm. Arthur’s arms were wrapped possessively around his consort. When Merlin’s sleep-heavy eyes opened a fraction, Arthur tightened his grip and sighed, contentedly, breathing in the honey-like scent of Merlin’s hair.

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauties!” a knowing voice breathed into his ear. It took Arthur less than a second to extract himself, regretfully, from Merlin’s embrace, and pinion the voice’s owner to the ground, with a dagger to his throat.

“Whoa there, Princess! It’s only me!” squeaked Gwaine.

“Gwaine!” Arthur exclaimed. “What have I told you about creeping up on armed men?” he held out a gauntlet-clad hand to help haul Gwaine to his feet,

“I hate to disturb this vision of domestic bliss, sire,” said Gwaine, wiping away the tiny drop of blood where Arthur’s dagger had nicked his neck, “but the others are nearly here.”

And so it was that when Guinevere, Morgana, Leon, Lancelot, Elyan and Percival arrived at the ruined chapel in the dazzling mid-day sunshine, they encountered Merlin and Gwaine clearing ivy from the sacred space at the chapel’s heart, while Arthur looked on, the sword, unsheathed, upon his knees. Merlin, despite his injuries, contributed his labour in the form of swiftly administered spells while Gwaine did the majority of the heavy lifting.  

Gwen had gathered holly, and dog-roses, and honeysuckle from the woods; she and Morgana had made bouquets with lavender, and rosemary, and lily-of-the-valley, which they lay in the ruined chapel so that it was festooned with blossom, and the warm air was luxuriously scented.

And then, finally, after they had shared a meal together in the forest, Arthur took the sword from his scabbard and brought it back to the place where he had found it. He slid it gently back into the rock; to his companions it seemed almost as if it grew from the granite like a steel tree. There was no sound but the humming of bees and the sussuration of leaves in the breeze.

Grinning, Gwaine stepped forward and gripped the handle, giving it an experimental tug. The rock did not yield it up to him. Arthur grinned back at him, and stepping forth, pulled it easily free. Percival, Elyan, Lancelot and Morgana each took a turn, and each of them failed to free the sword. Merlin refused even to try.

“Arthur’s the once and future king,” he said, dismissively when Gwaine beckoned it over. “The sword was forged for him; there’s no point in me attempting to pull it out.”

Something in his voice made Arthur turn to him, then, a sudden suspicion forming in his head. He stepped across to Merlin and spoke in a low voice, away from where the others could hear.

“Soooo… Merlin,” he said, slowly, frowning. “You vowed to reveal the things that were hidden from me; would the origin of this sword be one of those things?”

Merlin adopted a startled-deer expression when he met Arthur’s gaze, and bit his lip. “I suppose that… now might be a good time to tell you about that?” he said eventually. Arthur nodded, and changed his position so that the business end of the sword was angled towards Merlin, but hidden from view. “If you would, Merlin,” he growled.

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to be surprised when Merlin told him that he had tempered the sword for Arthur in Kilgarrah’s flame, that it was a magical sword, that its name was Excalibur, and that none but Arthur could wield it. He didn’t even blink when Merlin spoke of how he had set the sword in the stone so that none but Arthur could pull it free.

That upstart former-manservant, with his damned secrets, would be the death of Arthur one day, he supposed.

He looked up, startled, at the sound of galloping hooves; a messenger from Queen Annis burst through a stand of slender silver birch trees, which shivered in his wake.

“Prince Arthur, Queen Annis bids me to tell you that news has come from Camelot. Agravaine, who calls himself king, has brought forward his coronation and King Uther’s funeral: Agravaine will be crowned tomorrow at noon and then Uther will be interred.”

Arthur choked down the rising bile in his gorge, and leaped to his feet. There was no time to waste on solemn processions; they must make haste to Camelot.

“Come, Merlin, Gwaine,” he said. “Merlin, you must ask Kilgarrah for his help. Let us get to Camelot without any further delay.”

“But what about the plan?” said Leon helplessly. Arthur grinned, hauling Merlin to his feet.

“The best plans are made up as you go along,” he said. “Leon, Percival, Elyan, Lancelot; bring Morgana and Gwen safely to Camelot. I have a usurper to depose.”

Gwaine barked a laugh. “You’re learning, Princess,” he said. 


	18. Amber Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur was uneasy. “What do you suppose is causing all these fires?” he asked. He felt, rather than saw, Merlin tense at his words and imagined his consort’s eyes flashing gold as he sought to understand what was happening. 
> 
> Merlin’s breath started to come faster now, his chest was heaving. “No!” he shouted, “Surely even Agravaine would not be so… Arthur, we have to stop him!”

Soaring high into the air it was easy for Arthur to forget his troubles and responsibilities, and concentrate instead on the biting wind in his face, the eye-watering distance to the ground. He craned his neck to peer down at constantly-changing view, and tried to ignore Merlin’s constant grumbling and Kilgarrah’s oblique pronouncements. Gwaine was uncharacteristically silent; maybe he, too, was focussing on holding on tight to the dragon’s hot, knobbly skin. Arthur could see seagulls whirling far below him; the land marched off into the sunrise, a rich patchwork of green and gold, fields and forests, hedgerows and glades.

“You ride to your destiny, young warlock,” boomed Kilgarrah; his rib cage vibrating against Arthur’s thigh. “Those who seek power should first understand the heavy burden of responsibility. Agravaine has failed to learn that lesson.”

Arthur was startled when Gwaine joined in the conversation, shouting to make himself heard above the deafening voice of the wind. “Kilgarrah is right,” he said. “People who require power for its own sake are not suited to rule. You’ve got to know what you want to do with it. The reason why I follow you, Arthur, is because you have a strong sense of justice, and not just for the nobility either. You’d better use it.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur could feel Merlin’s bony thigh resting at his back as his consort shifted his weight, his wound uncomfortable still. “That’s all very well, Kilgarrah,” said Merlin, and the whistle and suck of the wind was so loud Arthur wasn’t sure whether the dragon could hear him until a rumbling sound echoed through his limbs; Kilgarrah letting out one of his infamous chuckles no doubt. “But what about those who have no wish for power, but keep being thrust into positions where they have to use it anyway, for example, when some scabrous, putrid, rat-dung-eating snake like Agravaine takes it upon himself to clamber to the top over the bodies of his own family. What about us, then, eh?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Merlin must be feeling better, he thought. His language was growing more pithy by the minute as he carried on ranting into Arthur’s ear.

“It’s all very well to talk about destiny,” Merlin went on, his voice strong and clear above the din, “but it’s no bed of roses being destined to protect a stubborn, arrogant prince who is determined to get himself stabbed, poisoned, bludgeoned and enchanted on a daily basis, and who moans more about being protected and healed than he does about being wounded!”

Arthur was indignant. “Hey!” he protested. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!”

“You see, Kilgarrah!” yelled Merlin, “You see what I have to put up with? It’s not enough that I have to be destined to protect this insufferable prat, but then, as if to seal the deal, destiny saw fit to have me fall in love with him as well! The heartbreak I have to go through every single day…”

Arthur made a deep growling noise in his throat and turned his head to look at his consort, who was grinning from ear to ear, looking far too pleased with himself. Arthur chuckled. They had always had the ability to express feelings for each other in insults and banter; he had missed this easygoing verbal fencing. “Merlin, you are a soft-hearted, irritating, bumbling incompetent who couldn’t protect a kitten in a thunderstorm,” he said. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

And somehow while they had been flinging insults at one another Kilgarrah had caught a glimpse of something; a plume of smoke smudged the horizon, towards Camelot, and then when he looked about him Arthur could see another, and another, and as they sped towards their destination they quickly became surrounded by such clouds.

Arthur was uneasy. “What do you suppose is causing all these fires?” he asked. He felt, rather than saw, Merlin tense at his words and imagined his consort’s eyes flashing gold as he sought to understand what was happening. Merlin’s breath started to come faster now, his chest was heaving. “No!” he shouted, “Surely even Agravaine would not be so… Arthur, we have to stop him!”

“What’s happening!” yelled Gwaine.

“Men are torching the fields!” yelled Merlin in response. “Knights in Pendragon red cloaks are burning the crops. Peasants are trying to stop them but they are lying down; I think they are dead. Kilgarrah, we have to stop them! Kilgarrah, let me down!” and the idiot started to wriggle around as if he was going to fly straight down to the ground to fight the perpetrators. “The people will starve! This cannot happen! Arthur, we must stop them!”

Kilgarrah began to circle and wheel gently down towards the ground. Remembering what had happened last time he flew, Arthur tightened his grip on Excalibur as they descended. Finally Kilgarrah alighted in a field about half an hour’s walk from Camelot’s citadel. In one corner of the field stood a straggly army of peasants bearing pitchforks as weapons; they were cornered by five men wearing the armour of knights of Camelot, and despite their best efforts the peasants were being beaten back. The lingering scent of fire swirled around, smoke stinging Arthur’s eyes and making him cough.

Arthur and Gwaine drew their swords, the sound of bright steel being slid from scabbards ringing shrilly through the early morning air, and they strode over to the group of knights. “Turn and fight, cowards!” Arthur called, “Or are you afraid to meet your peers in battle, preferring instead to attack unarmed farmers?”

The men turned; one of them, the leader perhaps, sneered. “Well, what do we have here?” he said. “A prattish fop, holding a toy sword. This should be fun.” The others in the group laughed; one of them kept his face towards the peasants, to ensure that they were kept at bay.

The leading knight and Arthur circled around one another; when he feinted towards Arthur, Arthur stepped towards him with a fluid movement, stepped right under his guard and flipped the man’s sword out of his gauntleted hand, catching it with his shield arm. He grinned. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that. Say that again?” he joked. The peasants cheered when Gwaine jumped on the knight, pinning him to the floor under his weight. Two sturdy-looking farmers leaped to join him, sitting on the brute with enthusiasm, one of them tying his wrists with twine.

Two more knights sprang towards Arthur at once, swords at the ready, wary expressions in their eyes. Arthur somersaulted over their ouststretched swords, tumbling and righting himself in a fluid movement, still holding Excalibur in one hand and the disarmed knight’s sword in the other. Turning, he leaped to his feet, grabbing each man’s shoulder with a gauntleted fist, he rammed them into one another so that their heads clashed and they fell, dazed, to the floor.

The two remaining knights relinquished their arms into Merlin’s outstretched hand; all the knights were then led away by the villagers, except for their leader, who lay struggling beneath the combined weight of two hefty farmers and Gwaine.

At Arthur’s signal Gwaine let the man stand, flanked by the peasants. Arthur circled him, holding his gaze. “So…” he drawled. “A knight of Camelot, I see, reduced to brutalising his own people and ruining their livelihoods. What madness is this?”

The man licked his lips and met Arthur’s eyes bravely.

“The King… Agravaine”

“He is not King, yet,” Arthur interrupted.

“Indeed, well, Agravaine,” said the man, and Arthur commended him for his bravery, but not for his stupidity, when he raised a belligerent chin and started forward as he spoke, “Agravaine, he said that we were to make people swear fealty to him, and if they refused we were to cut down their crops, kill the men, and bring the women and children to the citadel where he would make good use of them.”

Merlin, who had been silent up to this point, leaned on his staff, and hissed.

“Tell me, friend,” he started gently enough, “What sort of a tyrant needs to threaten his citizens in order for them to swear fealty?” he hobbled towards the man, staring at him intently. Merlin growled and far in the distance an echoing rumble of thunder punctuated his words; the very ground seemed to tremble. Merlin’s voice deepened – the remaining peasants’ eyes were growing rounder, and Merlin almost seemed to grow. “Maybe… the sort of tyrant who feels insecure about his claim to the throne? Maybe a usurper, a kin-slayer, and a traitor?” His deep-set eyes and the hollows under his cheeks were shrouded in shadow. The knight swallowed. Merlin could really be quite sinister when he put his mind to it.

“Perhaps, my lord?” ventured the knight.

Arthur’s mouth turned up at one corner. Merlin had frightened the fellow half to death, but give him his due, he was still standing, and didn’t appear to have soiled himself.

“And why might that be so, do you think, Oh Sir Knight,” said Arthur, in a mock-friendly tone. “What possible reason could there be for Agravaine feeling insecure about his claim to the throne? Could it be that he doesn’t, in fact, have one? That he’s a traitor, a turncoat and a murderer? Could that be it, hmm, Sir Knight?”

The knight didn’t answer, but he nodded. His knees seemed to crumble under him and he fell to the floor at Arthur’s feet. Arthur sighed.

“Fine,” said Arthur. “I don’t have time to spend on this. Swear fealty to me, and I will spare your life. Otherwise your life is forfeit. Do you swear?”

“Yes sire!” he said, in a trembly voice at first and then repeating himself in a stronger tone, “Yes, sire, and thank you Prince Arthur, sir, for coming back. Agravaine is a serpent, I will serve you with all my heart.”

“Good,” purred Arthur. “In that case your first task is to help these villagers to rebuild their homes and tend their crops. You will stay here for a year and then come and report to me in Camelot. If the people fare well, I will consider admitting you back to the knighthood. If not, you might as well stay away. Do you understand?”

“Aye sire,” said the man, and he stood, shoulders bowed. The villagers led him away.

One man who had helped to restrain the knight stayed behind. He was a ruddy-faced, strong-chinned fellow with closely cropped dark curly hair and deep brown eyes. He wore a peasant’s jerkin and hose, his feet were clad in boots; a well-to-do farmer, no doubt, and a powerful man in the village. “Thank you Prince Arthur,” he said. “We will remember this.” Arthur nodded.

“A king’s first duty is to his subjects,” said Arthur. “It seems that Agravaine has forgotten that. What is your name? And the name of this village?”

“I am Gareth, son of Gavin, sire, and the village is called Caerbre.”

“Gareth, I value brave citizens such as you. I would be proud to have you by my side. I bid you come to Camelot today. Agravaine wishes to be crowned king, at noon. I wish to stop him. Will you and your fellow villagers come and lend me your support?”

The man’s face was transfixed with pride. “I will, sire!” he croaked, eventually, bending his knee and bowing his head reverently. “I will inform the village and I bet that most of them will come, sire! I have friends in nearby villages as well; I will send messages and they will come.”

Arthur smiled at him. “See that you do,” he said, his heart lifting a little when he caught the enraptured expression on Merlin’s face. He strode over to his consort. “Is there anything you can do for these people?” he said in a low voice.

Merlin’s smile glowed, like the sunrise. “I believe I can,” he said. Arthur clapped a hand to Merlin’s shoulder, forgetting his consort’s injuries for a moment until Merlin’s face twisted with pain. Arthur withdrew his hand as if burned, but Merlin smiled at him, reassuringly, and turned, extending a hand across the smouldering stubble in the fields. His eyes flashed golden; the farmer, Gareth, stepped back, alarmed, but instead of destruction raining down upon them, a peaceful feeling descended, and the scent of apples, and cherry blossom mingled with a sussuration of leaves. Within moments a growing crop of barley sprang forth from the soil. Merlin withdrew his hand, gasping a little, and turned to the peasant, smiling apologetically.

“How did you do that?” gasped Gareth.

Merlin shrugged. “Magic?” he said, waggling his fingers, and, with a wordless glance at Arthur, who nodded towards the dragon, started hobbling across the field towards Kilgarrah.

Arthur looked at Gareth, whose awe at speaking to his future king mingled with wariness at the sight of a Pendragon consorting with a dragon and a sorcerer. “I am not like my father nor my uncle,” Arthur said, shrugging. “Things will be different, when I am king.” Smirking, he strode across the field in his consort’s wake.

~#~

By the time they had quelled the fires in four more nearby villages, they were tired and thirsty; Kilgarrah was beginning to complain and sun was creeping towards its zenith. They turned towards Camelot.

Arthur sighed as he saw the familiar turrets, clad with black mourning flags, which fluttered bravely in the wind. He would need his wits about him today. Kilgarrah’s great wings kinked as he banked, extending his enormous talons towards the ground. He had not flown openly towards Camelot for many years, since Merlin had set him free; Arthur could see the figures of men darting hither and thither on the turrets, presumably to relay the news of their arrival to Agravaine. So when they arrived at Camelot’s great steps there was a heavily armed reception committee braced to attack them.

Bowmen loosed a flurry of arrows at the three men and the dragon, but they bounced off harmlessly, thanks to a protective spell that Merlin had woven around them. As the men stepped down from Kilgarrah’s extended forelimb, Arthur kept a wary eye on the assembled stern-faced warriors before them. Kilgarrah leaped back into the air, beating his wings for ten heartbeats. The hot breeze that this stirred up lifted the knights’ cloaks and sent dead leaves skittering round the courtyard. There must have been fifty heavily armed men sent to greet them, but not one of them spoke. Out of the corner of his eye Arthur could see a crowd of townsfolk, augmented by farm workers from surrounding villages, beginning to gather all around just out of arrowshot.

Merlin stepped forward first, clinging on to his staff, his face partly obscured by a hood.

“Behold,” his voice rang out clearly, though he did not shout. “The Crown Prince is returned to Camelot to see his father avenged and to claim his rightful place as King.”

Arthur drew his sword and handed it to Merlin, who held it aloft. “Behold!” he cried, again, “Prince Arthur drew the sword Excalibur from the stone, and brings it to Camelot to reinforce his claim to the throne. Who stands with him? Choose quickly.”

The stern-faced knights did not move, but Arthur sensed or heard movement behind him; quiet footsteps and rustling of clothes from the throng that was crowding into the courtyard from the lower town, swelled by the ranks of peasants from the villages he had saved.

“I stand with Prince Arthur,” called a voice from the crowd behind him. Arthur recognised Gareth, from Caerbre, as the man stepped boldly forward, armed only with a pitchfork. “He rescued my brothers from attack and his consort Merlin restored our crops. Agravaine has done nothing for us. I stand behind Prince Arthur as my king.”

A lone archer sent an arrow into the crowd, but Merlin diverted it with a wave of his hand. It clattered to the cobbles, and someone from the crowd pressing in behind him stepped forward to retrieve it.

“And I,” stated a deep voice. Arthur smiled; it was Aelfred, the innkeeper from Combe. Aelfred stepped calmly forward. “Arthur slew the Gwyllgi and reopened the road to Caerleon. The Amber Rose, who stands by his side, rescued my daughter. Agravaine has done nothing for us. I stand behind Prince Arthur as my king.”

“And I,” said Gwaine, grinning. “I have little regard for nobles, but Arthur is courageous, just and fair; I stand behind Prince Arthur as my king.” And he laid his sword at Arthur’s feet, kneeling before him.

“And I,” said Merlin, also kneeling down, and only Arthur could see the pain in his face as he bent his wounded leg. “Arthur has no regard for himself, only for what is right. He took the sword Excalibur from the stone. He is Uther’s true heir and successor. He cares for his subjects and inspires their love. He will be a great king.”

Gradually more and more of the townsfolk and ordinary people of Camelot stood forward and proudly proclaimed their fealty to the Crown Prince. Arthur stood as still as stone, acknowledging their pledges with nods and smiles, but not speaking. Merlin and Gwaine stood by his side, watching the throng for signs of trouble. One of the knights on the steps peeled off to enter the Great Hall. The knight would no doubt be warning Agravaine. Maybe Agravaine would take the bait and come out to fight; if not, then Arthur would take the fight to him. Arthur felt his blood surge and his pulse rise in anticipation.

When there was a movement among the knights on the steps Merlin lifted his hand in case of an attack, but no such a charge came. Instead, one of the knights stepped down from his vantage point and approached Arthur with his sword across his hands. He knelt and bowed his head, presenting his sword. “I stand with Arthur,” he said calmly. “Arthur, before his exile, led us courageously in battle. Saxons amass on our shores to the east. Arthur is a valiant warrior and leader, and dark times lie ahead. Prince Arthur can lead us in the coming war. I stand behind Prince Arthur as my king.”

Arthur had not yet spoken but decided that now was the time.

“Arise, sir knight,” he said firmly. “Come let us depose the usurper. The time is come.” Heart pounding, he handed the knight’s sword back and indicated that he should join the assembled crowd.

And that, it seemed, was the trickle that started the avalanche. One by one Agravaine’s men left their positions on the steps and swore fealty to Arthur as the king.

When the very last of the knights had left the steps, Arthur walked up to the top and stood facing the crowd.

“I thank you all, loyal citizens of Camelot,” he said, raising his voice, “for your brave and principled stand against the traitor. I swear that I shall lead you with my honour, my life and my love. Citizens of Camelot, you should be proud of each other this day. You have shown great courage. Let us stand together and remove my treacherous uncle from his stolen throne. For Camelot!” and he held Excalibur aloft; its blade shone true and pure in the glare of the noonday sun.

“For Camelot!” cried the proud citizenry. And then they took up a chant of his name. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.” Arthur could barely hear for the fierce pounding of his pulse in his ears.

He found the way to the Great Hall barred by two heavily armed guards. But as he turned his gaze upon them, one of them lowered his halberd and bowed. After a moment the other followed suit. Arthur nodded and pushed past them, his sword still drawn, and entered the Great Hall, where a nervous-looking gathering of nobles and courtiers stood, staring towards the door. Agravaine sat upon Uther’s throne; Geoffrey of Monmouth stood in front of him, with Uther’s crown laid on a cushion in his hands.

“It seems I should congratulate you,  nephew” said Agravaine coolly as the sombrely-clad courtiers parted to let Arthur stride slowly through, Gwaine and Merlin at his back, followed by a motley selection of farmers and townsfolk bearing kitchen implements and agricultural tools as weapons. “You have brought a highly-trained army with you. It will take my knights and nobles nearly twenty minutes to slay them all.”

“That won’t be necessary, uncle” said Arthur, continuing his advance. He darted surreptitious glances to the left and right as he moved forward; the ranks of the courtiers did not seem entirely hostile. “Once you relinquish your claim on the throne the crowds will disperse without all that unnecessary bloodshed. There is no honour in slaying the peasants, farmers and craftsmen whose labours sustain us.” Various of the gathered noblemen and courtiers caught his eye approvingly as he looked over them. He wondered whether Agravaine had much support amongst them at all.

When he reached the front of the hall he fell silent for a moment as he regarded King Uther, who lay in state, grey-faced on his bier. Arthur bowed his head as he genuflected, and he swallowed as he regarded his father’s corpse, remembering with a pang of grief the hard words between them at their last meeting. It was strange, he mused, how those familiar features could look so different, almost unrecognisable, now that the spirit had departed.

Schooling his features into an indifferent mask, he stepped up to the throne where Agravaine sat.

“Uncle,” he said, “I reject your claim to the throne. I bring with me the sword, Excalibur, which I pulled from the stone in the chapel at Caerleon. I bring with me the goodwill of Camelot’s ordinary citizens, whose labour and loyalty bring the nobility and the monarchy their riches and prestige. It is my duty as king to protect and nurture them. I am the crown prince, my father named me such when I lived here. I am the rightful king of Camelot.”

Agravaine made to spit in Arthur’s face; Merlin stopped the gobbet of spit mid-air and it fell at Arthur’s feet.

“So be it,” said Arthur. “I had hoped to retake the throne without bloodshed,” Arthur smiled as he lied. He wanted to kill Agravaine; now that he’d seen his father’s body his blood was rising, and nothing would sate him now but Agravaine’s death, “but it seems that you are unwilling to let me.” Handing his sword to Gwaine for a moment, Arthur ostentatiously removed one glove, finger by finger, and then hurled it at Agravaine’s feet in challenge. He took the sword back.

“It is a shame, for it means I will have to fight you. Agravaine, son of Lot, I challenge you to trial by combat. Whoever wins the duel winds the right to become King Uther’s successor.”

Agravaine’s expression did not change, but he motioned towards the guards who stood beside the throne. “Arrest them,” he barked, indicating Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin. “There can be no fair trial at arms when one party is assisted by a sorcerer!”

Arthur saw Merlin open his mouth to protest that he would not interfere. Arthur waved a hand at him to stay silent, but it didn’t matter because the guards did not move. They exchanged a look. “We are with Prince Arthur,” said one of them, dropping his sword.

Arthur felt a fierce and radiant joy welling up in his heart as Agravaine rose to his feet and withdrew his sword from its scabbard. At last he was to have a chance to press his claim home. Agravaine stepped down from the dais towards Arthur, lunging at him, sword in hand, without warning. Arthur parried the blow with ease, and stepped back a little. Merlin and Gwaine pressed the crowding courtiers back. An uproar arose from around and about. “Arthur!” began the chant. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!”

Agravaine feinted and lunged again; he had a good reach, Arthur remembered as he parried, surging forward with a counterattack towards Agravaine’s sword arm, but tended to favour his right side. Arthur leapt up onto the steps above his Uncle and started to harry his left side, darting in with a well-timed blow to Agravaine’s flank, nicking him through a chink in his ceremonial chain mail, pulling a drip of blood and a stream of curses from him, evoking a roar of approval from the crowd.

Agravaine pressed forward again, rushing up the steps and angrily pressing towards Arthur’s unprotected side, with little finesse or regard for skill. Arthur easily parried and, allowing his uncle’s momentum to carry him forward, tripped him and floored him with a boot to the back side.

Turning his uncle over, Arthur stamped hard on his wrist until, with a sickening crunch of bones, Agravaine relinquished his hold on his sword. Arthur turned him onto his back and knelt over him in triumph, his sword pressed up against Agravaine’s neck.

“Do you yield?” growled Arthur, panting heavily, sweat dripping onto Agravaine’s red face. He prayed that his uncle would say “no,” so that he could deliver a killer blow, but the sly old fox nodded and croaked “Aye, sire, I yield.”

Arthur nodded over to the guard. “Take the traitor,” he said, “and place him in the dungeon while I work out what to do with him.” He eased off his uncle’s chest, and ran his hand wearily through his sweat-drenched blond hair, feeling the adrenal rush seeping out of him with every breath. He staggered over to the throne without any great thought other than the need to sit; but when he rested there, Merlin turned towards the court and yelled “King Uther is dead. Long live King Arthur!”

“Long live the King!” replied Gwaine.

The throng took up the cry until it echoed around Camelot, and someone must have taken a message up to the bell tower, for then the bells started to ring to proclaim the news, and as one the people in the room knelt before Arthur, shouting his name.

And then Geoffrey of Monmouth stood forward, with King Uther’s crown on a cushion, and, kneeling before him, Arthur vowed to protect and lead the citizens of Camelot until his dying breath. When he stood, crown upon his head, it was said later that the deafening cacophony of his subjects’ approval could be heard in distant Caerleon. But all Arthur could see were the dancing eyes and wide grin of his proud consort.

~#~

After the solemn procession had wound its way back from the lake, where Uther’s body had been dispatched with all pomp and ceremony due to a king in Albion, Merlin called to Kilgarrah; he and the King spent days touring round the land, rounding up ruffians and miscreants, garnering oaths of fealty from distant nobles, and restoring the crops that Agravaine had desecrated in his ire. Gradually as the days lengthened more and more of Camelot's exiled citizens returned, including Arthur's closest councillors from Caerleon, and began to assemble to rebuild the kingdom.

One day in midsummer Arthur and Merlin snatched a precious moment together on the turrets of Camelot, looking over the land. The only plumes of smoke that arose were from cooking fires; a feast would be held on Midsummer’s Eve, and the good citizens of the town were enthusiastic brewing, baking, pickling, braising and roasting in preparation.

Arthur turned to Merlin and drew him in close enough to feel his consort’s breath tickling the hairs on the nape of his neck. "You didn't kill him," said Merlin. "Do you know what you are going to do?" Merlin's hand crept toward's Arthur's neck where his long fingers drew maddening circles.

Arthur sighed, leaning into Merlin's hand. "I am not sure," he said, groaning a little as Merlin massaged the tension from his neck. "If you believe the girl's prophecy, I am destined to kill my uncle; however, I did not wish to shed blood at my father's funeral and my coronation. Oof. Your fingers, Merlin... just there, yes." 

"I am proud that you stayed your hand, Arthur," said Merlin with a smile. "The ordinary people of Camelot see you as both strong and merciful. It takes great strength to grant mercy to the undeserving."

Arthur nodded. One day he would have Agravaine tried, and maybe he would have to execute him as a traitor, but there were other, more pressing issues to sort out first; one lanky-limbed, infuriating, insubordinate and distractingly clever-fingered example stood before him now.

“Merlin,” he said, “You have managed to put it off for long enough. It’s time you told me everything as you promised.”

“Yes sire,” Merlin breathed. “But first, my liege, with your permission, I would like to do this.”

Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed as his hands moved up to Arthur's scalp and he threaded his fingers into the King’s fine hair. Merlin pulled Arthur’s head towards him, and pressed their mouths together. For a moment Arthur allowed himself to drown in the sensation as they kissed, Merlin’s lean body hot against his, so close and yet not close enough. Arthur withdrew gently, relishing the involuntary whimper that escaped Merlin when he pulled out of the embrace to gaze at Merlin’s face in wonder. Arthur’s heart hammered as he took in the desperate longing in Merlin’s eyes, the sight of Merlin’s rosy lips, flushed skin and riotous hair.

“Come,” said Arthur gently, leading Merlin by the hand. “Let us share each other’s secrets in private.” And far above them, away out of sight, a dragon’s wing flipped lazily. Almost out of earshot, a deep-throated chuckle rumbled into the clouds and was gone.

End


End file.
